Chapter 1 "We Are Seven"   The old stage coach was rumbling alongthe dusty road that runs from Maplewoodto Riverboro. The day was as warmas midsummer, though it was only the middle ofMay, and Mr. Jeremiah Cobb was favoring thehorses as much as possible, yet never losing sightof the fact that he carried the mail. The hills weremany, and the reins lay loosely in his hands as helolled back in his seat and extended one foot andleg luxuriously over the dashboard. His brimmedhat of worn felt was well pulled over his eyes, andhe revolved a quid of tobacco in his left cheek.   There was one passenger in the coach,--a smalldark-haired person in a glossy buff calico dress.   She was so slender and so stiffly starched thatshe slid from space to space on the leather cushions,though she braced herself against the middleseat with her feet and extended her cotton-glovedhands on each side, in order to maintain some sortof balance. Whenever the wheels sank farther thanusual into a rut, or jolted suddenly over a stone,she bounded involuntarily into the air, came downagain, pushed back her funny little straw hat, andpicked up or settled more firmly a small pink sunshade, which seemed to be her chief responsibility,--unless we except a bead purse, into whichshe looked whenever the condition of the roadswould permit, finding great apparent satisfactionin that its precious contents neither disappearednor grew less. Mr. Cobb guessed nothing of theseharassing details of travel, his business being tocarry people to their destinations, not, necessarily,to make them comfortable on the way. Indeed hehad forgotten the very existence of this oneunnoteworthy little passenger.   When he was about to leave the post-office inMaplewood that morning, a woman had alightedfrom a wagon, and coming up to him, inquiredwhether this were the Riverboro stage, and if hewere Mr. Cobb. Being answered in the affirmative,she nodded to a child who was eagerly waitingfor the answer, and who ran towards her as if shefeared to be a moment too late. The child mighthave been ten or eleven years old perhaps, butwhatever the number of her summers, she had anair of being small for her age. Her mother helpedher into the stage coach, deposited a bundle anda bouquet of lilacs beside her, superintended the"roping on" behind of an old hair trunk, and finallypaid the fare, counting out the silver with greatcare.   "I want you should take her to my sisters'   in Riverboro," she said. "Do you know Mi-randy and Jane Sawyer? They live in the brickhouse."Lord bless your soul, he knew 'em as well asif he'd made 'em!   "Well, she's going there, and they're expectingher. Will you keep an eye on her, please? If shecan get out anywhere and get with folks, or getanybody in to keep her company, she'll do it.   Good-by, Rebecca; try not to get into any mischief,and sit quiet, so you'll look neat an' nice whenyou get there. Don't be any trouble to Mr. Cobb.   --You see, she's kind of excited.--We came onthe cars from Temperance yesterday, slept all nightat my cousin's, and drove from her house--eightmiles it is--this morning.""Good-by, mother, don't worry; you know itisn't as if I hadn't traveled before."The woman gave a short sardonic laugh and saidin an explanatory way to Mr. Cobb, "She's been toWareham and stayed over night; that isn't muchto be journey-proud on!""It WAS TRAVELING, mother," said the childeagerly and willfully. "It was leaving the farm, andputting up lunch in a basket, and a little ridingand a little steam cars, and we carried our nightgowns.""Don't tell the whole village about it, if we did,"said the mother, interrupting the reminiscences ofthis experienced voyager. "Haven't I told youbefore," she whispered, in a last attempt atdiscipline, "that you shouldn't talk about nightgowns and stockings and--things like that, in aloud tone of voice, and especially when there'smen folks round?""I know, mother, I know, and I won't. All Iwant to say is"--here Mr. Cobb gave a cluck,slapped the reins, and the horses started sedatelyon their daily task--"all I want to say is that itis a journey when"--the stage was really underway now and Rebecca had to put her head out ofthe window over the door in order to finish hersentence--"it IS a journey when you carry anightgown!"The objectionable word, uttered in a high treble,floated back to the offended ears of Mrs. Randall,who watched the stage out of sight, gathered upher packages from the bench at the store door,and stepped into the wagon that had been standingat the hitching-post. As she turned the horse'shead towards home she rose to her feet for amoment, and shading her eyes with her hand, lookedat a cloud of dust in the dim distance.   "Mirandy'll have her hands full, I guess," shesaid to herself; "but I shouldn't wonder if it wouldbe the making of Rebecca."All this had been half an hour ago, and the sun,the heat, the dust, the contemplation of errands tobe done in the great metropolis of Milltown, hadlulled Mr. Cobb's never active mind into completeoblivion as to his promise of keeping an eye onRebecca.   Suddenly he heard a small voice above the rattleand rumble of the wheels and the creaking of theharness. At first he thought it was a cricket, a treetoad, or a bird, but having determined the directionfrom which it came, he turned his head over hisshoulder and saw a small shape hanging as far outof the window as safety would allow. A long blackbraid of hair swung with the motion of the coach;the child held her hat in one hand and with theother made ineffectual attempts to stab the driverwith her microscopic sunshade.   "Please let me speak!" she called.   Mr. Cobb drew up the horses obediently.   "Does it cost any more to ride up there withyou?" she asked. "It's so slippery and shiny downhere, and the stage is so much too big for me, thatI rattle round in it till I'm 'most black and blue.   And the windows are so small I can only see piecesof things, and I've 'most broken my neck stretchinground to find out whether my trunk has fallenoff the back. It's my mother's trunk, and she'svery choice of it."Mr. Cobb waited until this flow of conversation,or more properly speaking this flood of criticism,had ceased, and then said jocularly:--"You can come up if you want to; there ain'tno extry charge to sit side o' me." Whereupon hehelped her out, "boosted" her up to the front seat,and resumed his own place.   Rebecca sat down carefully, smoothing her dressunder her with painstaking precision, and puttingher sunshade under its extended folds between thedriver and herself. This done she pushed back herhat, pulled up her darned white cotton gloves, andsaid delightedly:--"Oh! this is better! This is like traveling! Iam a real passenger now, and down there I felt likeour setting hen when we shut her up in a coop. Ihope we have a long, long ways to go?""Oh! we've only just started on it," Mr. Cobbresponded genially; "it's more 'n two hours.""Only two hours," she sighed "That will behalf past one; mother will be at cousin Ann's, thechildren at home will have had their dinner, andHannah cleared all away. I have some lunch,because mother said it would be a bad beginning to getto the brick house hungry and have aunt Mirandyhave to get me something to eat the first thing.--It's a good growing day, isn't it?""It is, certain; too hot, most. Why don't youput up your parasol?"She extended her dress still farther over thearticle in question as she said, "Oh dear no! I neverput it up when the sun shines; pink fades awfully,you know, and I only carry it to meetin' cloudySundays; sometimes the sun comes out all of asudden, and I have a dreadful time covering it up;it's the dearest thing in life to me, but it's an awfulcare."At this moment the thought gradually permeatedMr. Jeremiah Cobb's slow-moving mind that thebird perched by his side was a bird of very differentfeather from those to which he was accustomed inhis daily drives. He put the whip back in its socket,took his foot from the dashboard, pushed his hatback, blew his quid of tobacco into the road, andhaving thus cleared his mental decks for action, he tookhis first good look at the passenger, a look whichshe met with a grave, childlike stare of friendlycuriosity.   The buff calico was faded, but scrupulously clean,and starched within an inch of its life. From thelittle standing ruffle at the neck the child's slenderthroat rose very brown and thin, and the head lookedsmall to bear the weight of dark hair that hung ina thick braid to her waist. She wore an odd littlevizored cap of white leghorn, which may either havebeen the latest thing in children's hats, or some bitof ancient finery furbished up for the occasion. Itwas trimmed with a twist of buff ribbon and a clusterof black and orange porcupine quills, which hungor bristled stiffly over one ear, giving her thequaintest and most unusual appearance. Her face waswithout color and sharp in outline. As to features,she must have had the usual number, though Mr.   Cobb's attention never proceeded so far as nose,forehead, or chin, being caught on the way and heldfast by the eyes. Rebecca's eyes were like faith,--"the substance of things hoped for, the evidenceof things not seen." Under her delicately etchedbrows they glowed like two stars, their dancinglights half hidden in lustrous darkness. Theirglance was eager and full of interest, yet neversatisfied; their steadfast gaze was brilliant andmysterious, and had the effect of looking directly throughthe obvious to something beyond, in the object, inthe landscape, in you. They had never beenaccounted for, Rebecca's eyes. The school teacherand the minister at Temperance had tried andfailed; the young artist who came for the summerto sketch the red barn, the ruined mill, and thebridge ended by giving up all these local beautiesand devoting herself to the face of a child,--asmall, plain face illuminated by a pair of eyes carryingsuch messages, such suggestions, such hints ofsleeping power and insight, that one never tired oflooking into their shining depths, nor of fancyingthat what one saw there was the reflection of one'sown thought.   Mr. Cobb made none of these generalizations;his remark to his wife that night was simply to theeffect that whenever the child looked at him sheknocked him galley-west.   "Miss Ross, a lady that paints, gave me thesunshade," said Rebecca, when she had exchangedlooks with Mr. Cobb and learned his face by heart.   "Did you notice the pinked double ruffle and thewhite tip and handle? They're ivory. The handleis scarred, you see. That's because Fanny suckedand chewed it in meeting when I wasn't looking.   I've never felt the same to Fanny since.""Is Fanny your sister?""She's one of them.""How many are there of you?""Seven. There's verses written about sevenchildren:--"`Quick was the little Maid's reply,O master! we are seven!'   I learned it to speak in school, but the scholarswere hateful and laughed. Hannah is the oldest, Icome next, then John, then Jenny, then Mark, thenFanny, then Mira.""Well, that IS a big family!""Far too big, everybody says," replied Rebeccawith an unexpected and thoroughly grown-up candorthat induced Mr. Cobb to murmur, "I swan!"and insert more tobacco in his left cheek.   "They're dear, but such a bother, and cost somuch to feed, you see," she rippled on. "Hannahand I haven't done anything but put babies to bedat night and take them up in the morning for yearsand years. But it's finished, that's one comfort,and we'll have a lovely time when we're all grownup and the mortgage is paid off.""All finished? Oh, you mean you've comeaway?""No, I mean they're all over and done with;our family 's finished. Mother says so, and she alwayskeeps her promises. There hasn't been anysince Mira, and she's three. She was born theday father died Aunt Miranda wanted Hannahto come to Riverboro instead of me, but mothercouldn't spare her; she takes hold of houseworkbetter than I do, Hannah does. I told mother lastnight if there was likely to be any more childrenwhile I was away I'd have to be sent for, for whenthere's a baby it always takes Hannah and meboth, for mother has the cooking and the farm.""Oh, you live on a farm, do ye? Where is it?   --near to where you got on?""Near? Why, it must be thousands of miles!   We came from Temperance in the cars. Then wedrove a long ways to cousin Ann's and went to bed.   Then we got up and drove ever so far to Maplewood,where the stage was. Our farm is away offfrom everywheres, but our school and meetinghouse is at Temperance, and that's only two miles.   Sitting up here with you is most as good as climbingthe meeting-house steeple. I know a boy who'sbeen up on our steeple. He said the people andcows looked like flies. We haven't met any peopleyet, but I'm KIND of disappointed in the cows;--they don't look so little as I hoped they would;still (brightening) they don't look quite as big asif we were down side of them, do they? Boys alwaysdo the nice splendid things, and girls can onlydo the nasty dull ones that get left over. Theycan't climb so high, or go so far, or stay out solate, or run so fast, or anything."Mr. Cobb wiped his mouth on the back of hishand and gasped. He had a feeling that he was beinghurried from peak to peak of a mountain rangewithout time to take a good breath in between.   "I can't seem to locate your farm," he said,"though I've been to Temperance and used to liveup that way. What's your folks' name?""Randall. My mother's name is Aurelia Randall;our names are Hannah Lucy Randall, RebeccaRowena Randall, John Halifax Randall, JennyLind Randall, Marquis Randall, Fanny EllslerRandall, and Miranda Randall. Mother named halfof us and father the other half, but we didn't comeout even, so they both thought it would be nice toname Mira after aunt Miranda in Riverboro; theyhoped it might do some good, but it didn't, and nowwe call her Mira. We are all named after somebodyin particular. Hannah is Hannah at theWindow Binding Shoes, and I am taken out ofIvanhoe; John Halifax was a gentleman in a book;Mark is after his uncle Marquis de Lafayette thatdied a twin. (Twins very often don't live to growup, and triplets almost never--did you know that,Mr. Cobb?) We don't call him Marquis, only Mark.   Jenny is named for a singer and Fanny for a beautifuldancer, but mother says they're both misfits, forJenny can't carry a tune and Fanny's kind of stiff-legged. Mother would like to call them Jane andFrances and give up their middle names, but shesays it wouldn't be fair to father. She says wemust always stand up for father, because everythingwas against him, and he wouldn't have died if hehadn't had such bad luck. I think that's all thereis to tell about us," she finished seriously.   "Land o' Liberty! I should think it wasenough," ejaculated Mr. Cobb. "There wa'n'tmany names left when your mother got throughchoosin'! You've got a powerful good memory!   I guess it ain't no trouble for you to learn yourlessons, is it?""Not much; the trouble is to get the shoes togo and learn 'em. These are spandy new I've goton, and they have to last six months. Motheralways says to save my shoes. There don't seemto be any way of saving shoes but taking 'em offand going barefoot; but I can't do that in Riverborowithout shaming aunt Mirandy. I'm going toschool right along now when I'm living with auntMirandy, and in two years I'm going to the seminaryat Wareham; mother says it ought to be themaking of me! I'm going to be a painter like MissRoss when I get through school. At any rate, that'swhat _I_ think I'm going to be. Mother thinks I'dbetter teach.""Your farm ain't the old Hobbs place, is it?""No, it's just Randall's Farm. At least that'swhat mother calls it. I call it Sunnybrook Farm.""I guess it don't make no difference what youcall it so long as you know where it is," remarkedMr. Cobb sententiously.   Rebecca turned the full light of her eyes uponhim reproachfully, almost severely, as she answered:--"Oh! don't say that, and be like all the rest! Itdoes make a difference what you call things. WhenI say Randall's Farm, do you see how it looks?""No, I can't say I do," responded Mr. Cobb uneasily.   "Now when I say Sunnybrook Farm, what doesit make you think of?"Mr. Cobb felt like a fish removed from his nativeelement and left panting on the sand; there wasno evading the awful responsibility of a reply, forRebecca's eyes were searchlights, that pierced thefiction of his brain and perceived the bald spot onthe back of his head.   "I s'pose there's a brook somewheres near it,"he said timorously.   Rebecca looked disappointed but not quite dis-heartened. "That's pretty good," she saidencouragingly. "You're warm but not hot; there'sa brook, but not a common brook. It has youngtrees and baby bushes on each side of it, and it's ashallow chattering little brook with a white sandybottom and lots of little shiny pebbles. Wheneverthere's a bit of sunshine the brook catches it, andit's always full of sparkles the livelong day.   Don't your stomach feel hollow? Mine doest Iwas so 'fraid I'd miss the stage I couldn't eat anybreakfast.""You'd better have your lunch, then. I don'teat nothin' till I get to Milltown; then I get apiece o' pie and cup o' coffee.""I wish I could see Milltown. I suppose it'sbigger and grander even than Wareham; more likeParis? Miss Ross told me about Paris; she boughtmy pink sunshade there and my bead purse. Yousee how it opens with a snap? I've twenty centsin it, and it's got to last three months, for stampsand paper and ink. Mother says aunt Mirandywon't want to buy things like those when she'sfeeding and clothing me and paying for my schoolbooks.""Paris ain't no great," said Mr. Cobbdisparagingly. "It's the dullest place in the State o'   Maine. I've druv there many a time."Again Rebecca was obliged to reprove Mr. Cobb,tacitly and quietly, but none the less surely, thoughthe reproof was dealt with one glance, quickly sentand as quickly withdrawn.   "Paris is the capital of France, and you have togo to it on a boat," she said instructively. "It's inmy geography, and it says: `The French are a gayand polite people, fond of dancing and light wines.'   I asked the teacher what light wines were, and hethought it was something like new cider, or maybeginger pop. I can see Paris as plain as day by justshutting my eyes. The beautiful ladies are alwaysgayly dancing around with pink sunshades andbead purses, and the grand gentlemen are politelydancing and drinking ginger pop. But you can seeMilltown most every day with your eyes wideopen," Rebecca said wistfully.   "Milltown ain't no great, neither," replied Mr.   Cobb, with the air of having visited all the cities ofthe earth and found them as naught. "Now youwatch me heave this newspaper right onto Mis'   Brown's doorstep."Piff! and the packet landed exactly as it wasintended, on the corn husk mat in front of thescreen door.   "Oh, how splendid that was!" cried Rebeccawith enthusiasm. "Just like the knife throwerMark saw at the circus. I wish there was a long,long row of houses each with a corn husk mat anda screen door in the middle, and a newspaper tothrow on every one!""I might fail on some of 'em, you know," saidMr. Cobb, beaming with modest pride. "If youraunt Mirandy'll let you, I'll take you down toMilltown some day this summer when the stageain't full."A thrill of delicious excitement ran throughRebecca's frame, from her new shoes up, up to theleghorn cap and down the black braid. She pressedMr. Cobb's knee ardently and said in a voice chokingwith tears of joy and astonishment, "Oh, itcan't be true, it can't; to think I should seeMilltown. It's like having a fairy godmother who asksyou your wish and then gives it to you! Did youever read Cinderella, or The Yellow Dwarf, or TheEnchanted Frog, or The Fair One with GoldenLocks?""No," said Mr. Cobb cautiously, after a moment'sreflection. "I don't seem to think I ever did readjest those partic'lar ones. Where'd you get achance at so much readin'?""Oh, I've read lots of books," answeredRebecca casually. "Father's and Miss Ross's and allthe dif'rent school teachers', and all in the Sunday-school library. I've read The Lamplighter, andScottish Chiefs, and Ivanhoe, and The Heir ofRedclyffe, and Cora, the Doctor's Wife, and DavidCopperfield, and The Gold of Chickaree, and Plutarch'sLives, and Thaddeus of Warsaw, and Pilgrim's Progress,and lots more.--What have you read?""I've never happened to read those partic'larbooks; but land! I've read a sight in my time!   Nowadays I'm so drove I get along with theAlmanac, the Weekly Argus, and the Maine StateAgriculturist.--There's the river again; this isthe last long hill, and when we get to the top of itwe'll see the chimbleys of Riverboro in thedistance. 'T ain't fur. I live 'bout half a mile beyondthe brick house myself."Rebecca's hand stirred nervously in her lap andshe moved in her seat. "I didn't think I was goingto be afraid," she said almost under her breath;"but I guess I am, just a little mite--when yousay it's coming so near.""Would you go back?" asked Mr. Cobb curiously.   She flashed him an intrepid look and then saidproudly, "I'd never go back--I might be frightened,but I'd be ashamed to run. Going to auntMirandy's is like going down cellar in the dark.   There might be ogres and giants under the stairs,--but, as I tell Hannah, there MIGHT be elves andfairies and enchanted frogs!--Is there a mainstreet to the village, like that in Wareham?""I s'pose you might call it a main street, an'   your aunt Sawyer lives on it, but there ain't nostores nor mills, an' it's an awful one-horsevillage! You have to go 'cross the river an' get onto our side if you want to see anything goin' on.""I'm almost sorry," she sighed, "because itwould be so grand to drive down a real main street,sitting high up like this behind two splendid horses,with my pink sunshade up, and everybody in townwondering who the bunch of lilacs and the hairtrunk belongs to. It would be just like the beautifullady in the parade. Last summer the circuscame to Temperance, and they had a procession inthe morning. Mother let us all walk in and wheelMira in the baby carriage, because we couldn'tafford to go to the circus in the afternoon. Andthere were lovely horses and animals in cages, andclowns on horseback; and at the very end came alittle red and gold chariot drawn by two ponies, andin it, sitting on a velvet cushion, was the snakecharmer, all dressed in satin and spangles. She wasso beautiful beyond compare, Mr. Cobb, that youhad to swallow lumps in your throat when youlooked at her, and little cold feelings crept up anddown your back. Don't you know how I mean?   Didn't you ever see anybody that made you feellike that?"Mr. Cobb was more distinctly uncomfortable atthis moment than he had been at any one timeduring the eventful morning, but he evaded thepoint dexterously by saying, "There ain't no harm,as I can see, in our makin' the grand entry in thebiggest style we can. I'll take the whip out, setup straight, an' drive fast; you hold your bo'quetin your lap, an' open your little red parasol, an'   we'll jest make the natives stare!"The child's face was radiant for a moment, butthe glow faded just as quickly as she said, "I forgot--mother put me inside, and maybe she'd wantme to be there when I got to aunt Mirandy's.   Maybe I'd be more genteel inside, and then Iwouldn't have to be jumped down and my clothesfly up, but could open the door and step down likea lady passenger. Would you please stop a minute,Mr. Cobb, and let me change?"The stage driver good-naturedly pulled up hishorses, lifted the excited little creature down, openedthe door, and helped her in, putting the lilacs andthe pink sunshade beside her.   "We've had a great trip," he said, "and we'vegot real well acquainted, haven't we?--You won'tforget about Milltown?""Never!" she exclaimed fervently; "and you'resure you won't, either?""Never! Cross my heart!" vowed Mr. Cobbsolemnly, as he remounted his perch; and as thestage rumbled down the village street between thegreen maples, those who looked from their windowssaw a little brown elf in buff calico sitting primlyon the back seat holding a great bouquet tightly inone hand and a pink parasol in the other. Had theybeen farsighted enough they might have seen, whenthe stage turned into the side dooryard of the oldbrick house, a calico yoke rising and fallingtempestuously over the beating heart beneath, the redcolor coming and going in two pale cheeks, and amist of tears swimming in two brilliant dark eyes.   Rebecca's journey had ended.   "There's the stage turnin' into the Sawyergirls' dooryard," said Mrs. Perkins to her husband.   "That must be the niece from up Temperance way.   It seems they wrote to Aurelia and invited Hannah,the oldest, but Aurelia said she could spare Rebeccabetter, if 't was all the same to Mirandy 'n' Jane;so it's Rebecca that's come. She'll be goodcomp'ny for our Emma Jane, but I don't believethey'll keep her three months! She looks blackas an Injun what I can see of her; black and kindof up-an-comin'. They used to say that one o' theRandalls married a Spanish woman, somebodythat was teachin' music and languages at a boardin'   school. Lorenzo was dark complected, you remember,and this child is, too. Well, I don't know asSpanish blood is any real disgrace, not if it's a goodways back and the woman was respectable." Chapter 2 Rebecca's Relations They had been called the Sawyer girls whenMiranda at eighteen, Jane at twelve, andAurelia at eight participated in the variousactivities of village life; and when Riverboro fellinto a habit of thought or speech, it saw no reasonfor falling out of it, at any rate in the same century.   So although Miranda and Jane were between fiftyand sixty at the time this story opens, Riverborostill called them the Sawyer girls. They werespinsters; but Aurelia, the youngest, had made whatshe called a romantic marriage and what her sisterstermed a mighty poor speculation. "There's worsethings than bein' old maids," they said; whetherthey thought so is quite another matter.   The element of romance in Aurelia's marriageexisted chiefly in the fact that Mr. L. D. M. Randallhad a soul above farming or trading and was a votaryof the Muses. He taught the weekly singing-school(then a feature of village life) in half a dozenneighboring towns, he played the violin and "called off"at dances, or evoked rich harmonies from churchmelodeons on Sundays. He taught certain uncouthlads, when they were of an age to enter society, theintricacies of contra dances, or the steps of theschottische and mazurka, and he was a markedfigure in all social assemblies, though conspicuouslyabsent from town-meetings and the purely masculinegatherings at the store or tavern or bridge.   His hair was a little longer, his hands a littlewhiter, his shoes a little thinner, his manner a triflemore polished, than that of his soberer mates;indeed the only department of life in which he failedto shine was the making of sufficient money to liveupon. Luckily he had no responsibilities; his fatherand his twin brother had died when he was yet aboy, and his mother, whose only noteworthy achievementhad been the naming of her twin sons Marquisde Lafayette and Lorenzo de Medici Randall, hadsupported herself and educated her child by makingcoats up to the very day of her death. She was wontto say plaintively, "I'm afraid the faculties was toomuch divided up between my twins. L. D. M. isawful talented, but I guess M. D. L. would 'a' benthe practical one if he'd 'a' lived.""L. D. M. was practical enough to get the richestgirl in the village," replied Mrs. Robinson.   "Yes," sighed his mother, "there it is again; ifthe twins could 'a' married Aurelia Sawyer, 't would'a' been all right. L. D. M. was talented 'nough toGET Reely's money, but M. D. L. would 'a' ben practical'nough to have KEP' it."Aurelia's share of the modest Sawyer propertyhad been put into one thing after another by thehandsome and luckless Lorenzo de Medici. He hada graceful and poetic way of making an investmentfor each new son and daughter that blessed theirunion. "A birthday present for our child, Aurelia,"he would say,--"a little nest-egg for the future;"but Aurelia once remarked in a moment of bitternessthat the hen never lived that could sit onthose eggs and hatch anything out of them.   Miranda and Jane had virtually washed theirhands of Aurelia when she married Lorenzo deMedici Randall. Having exhausted the resourcesof Riverboro and its immediate vicinity, theunfortunate couple had moved on and on in a steadilydecreasing scale of prosperity until they had reachedTemperance, where they had settled down andinvited fate to do its worst, an invitation which waspromptly accepted. The maiden sisters at homewrote to Aurelia two or three times a year, and sentmodest but serviceable presents to the children atChristmas, but refused to assist L. D. M. with theregular expenses of his rapidly growing family.   His last investment, made shortly before the birthof Miranda (named in a lively hope of favors whichnever came), was a small farm two miles fromTemperance. Aurelia managed this herself, and soit proved a home at least, and a place for theunsuccessful Lorenzo to die and to be buried from, a dutysomewhat too long deferred, many thought, whichhe performed on the day of Mira's birth.   It was in this happy-go-lucky household that Rebeccahad grown up. It was just an ordinary family;two or three of the children were handsome and therest plain, three of them rather clever, two industrious,and two commonplace and dull. Rebecca hadher father's facility and had been his aptest pupil.   She "carried" the alto by ear, danced without beingtaught, played the melodeon without knowing thenotes. Her love of books she inherited chiefly fromher mother, who found it hard to sweep or cookor sew when there was a novel in the house.   Fortunately books were scarce, or the children mightsometimes have gone ragged and hungry.   But other forces had been at work in Rebecca,and the traits of unknown forbears had been wroughtinto her fibre. Lorenzo de Medici was flabby andboneless; Rebecca was a thing of fire and spirit:   he lacked energy and courage; Rebecca was pluckyat two and dauntless at five. Mrs. Randall andHannah had no sense of humor; Rebecca possessedand showed it as soon as she could walk and talk.   She had not been able, however, to borrow herparents' virtues and those of other generous ancestorsand escape all the weaknesses in the calendar.   She had not her sister Hannah's patience or herbrother John's sturdy staying power. Her will wassometimes willfulness, and the ease with which shedid most things led her to be impatient of hard tasksor long ones. But whatever else there was or wasnot, there was freedom at Randall's farm. The childrengrew, worked, fought, ate what and slept wherethey could; loved one another and their parentspretty well, but with no tropical passion; andeducated themselves for nine months of the year, eachone in his own way.   As a result of this method Hannah, who couldonly have been developed by forces applied fromwithout, was painstaking, humdrum, and limited;while Rebecca, who apparently needed nothing butspace to develop in, and a knowledge of terms inwhich to express herself, grew and grew and grew,always from within outward. Her forces of one sortand another had seemingly been set in motion whenshe was born; they needed no daily spur, but movedof their own accord--towards what no one knew,least of all Rebecca herself. The field for theexhibition of her creative instinct was painfully small,and the only use she had made of it as yet was toleave eggs out of the corn bread one day and milkanother, to see how it would turn out; to partFanny's hair sometimes in the middle, sometimeson the right, and sometimes on the left side; and toplay all sorts of fantastic pranks with the children,occasionally bringing them to the table as fictitiousor historical characters found in her favorite books.   Rebecca amused her mother and her family generally,but she never was counted of seriousimportance, and though considered "smart" and old forher age, she was never thought superior in any way.   Aurelia's experience of genius, as exemplified in thedeceased Lorenzo de Medici led her into a greateradmiration of plain, every-day common sense, a qualityin which Rebecca, it must be confessed, seemedsometimes painfully deficient.   Hannah was her mother's favorite, so far as Aureliacould indulge herself in such recreations as partiality.   The parent who is obliged to feed and clotheseven children on an income of fifteen dollars amonth seldom has time to discriminate carefullybetween the various members of her brood, but Hannahat fourteen was at once companion and partner inall her mother's problems. She it was who kept thehouse while Aurelia busied herself in barn and field.   Rebecca was capable of certain set tasks, such askeeping the small children from killing themselvesand one another, feeding the poultry, picking upchips, hulling strawberries, wiping dishes; but shewas thought irresponsible, and Aurelia, needingsomebody to lean on (having never enjoyed thatluxury with the gifted Lorenzo), leaned on Hannah.   Hannah showed the result of this attitude somewhat,being a trifle careworn in face and sharp in manner;but she was a self-contained, well-behaved, dependablechild, and that is the reason her aunts had invitedher to Riverboro to be a member of their family andparticipate in all the advantages of their loftierposition in the world. It was several years sinceMiranda and Jane had seen the children, but theyremembered with pleasure that Hannah had notspoken a word during the interview, and it wasfor this reason that they had asked for the pleasureof her company. Rebecca, on the other hand, haddressed up the dog in John's clothes, and beingrequested to get the three younger children readyfor dinner, she had held them under the pump andthen proceeded to "smack" their hair flat to theirheads by vigorous brushing, bringing them to thetable in such a moist and hideous state of shininessthat their mother was ashamed of their appearance.   Rebecca's own black locks were commonly pushedsmoothly off her forehead, but on this occasion sheformed what I must perforce call by its only name,a spit-curl, directly in the centre of her brow, anornament which she was allowed to wear a veryshort time, only in fact till Hannah was able to callher mother's attention to it, when she was sentinto the next room to remove it and to come backlooking like a Christian. This command she interpretedsomewhat too literally perhaps, because shecontrived in a space of two minutes an extremelypious style of hairdressing, fully as effective if notas startling as the first. These antics were solelythe result of nervous irritation, a mood born of MissMiranda Sawyer's stiff, grim, and martial attitude.   The remembrance of Rebecca was so vivid that theirsister Aurelia's letter was something of a shock tothe quiet, elderly spinsters of the brick house; forit said that Hannah could not possibly be sparedfor a few years yet, but that Rebecca would comeas soon as she could be made ready; that the offerwas most thankfully appreciated, and that the regularschooling and church privileges, as well as theinfluence of the Sawyer home, would doubtless be"the making of Rebecca" Chapter 3 A Difference In Hearts I don' know as I cal'lated to be the makin' of anychild," Miranda had said as she folded Aurelia'sletter and laid it in the light-stand drawer.   "I s'posed, of course, Aurelia would send us theone we asked for, but it's just like her to palm offthat wild young one on somebody else.""You remember we said that Rebecca or evenJenny might come, in case Hannah couldn't,"interposed Jane.   "I know we did, but we hadn't any notion it wouldturn out that way," grumbled Miranda.   "She was a mite of a thing when we saw herthree years ago," ventured Jane; "she's had timeto improve.""And time to grow worse!""Won't it be kind of a privilege to put her on theright track?" asked Jane timidly.   "I don' know about the privilege part; it'll beconsiderable of a chore, I guess. If her mother hain'tgot her on the right track by now, she won't take toit herself all of a sudden."This depressed and depressing frame of mind hadlasted until the eventful day dawned on which Rebeccawas to arrive.   "If she makes as much work after she comes asshe has before, we might as well give up hope ofever gettin' any rest," sighed Miranda as she hungthe dish towels on the barberry bushes at the sidedoor.   "But we should have had to clean house, Rebeccaor no Rebecca," urged Jane; "and I can't see whyyou've scrubbed and washed and baked as you havefor that one child, nor why you've about bought outWatson's stock of dry goods.""I know Aurelia if you don't," respondedMiranda. "I've seen her house, and I've seen thatbatch o' children, wearin' one another's clothes andnever carin' whether they had 'em on right sid' outor not; I know what they've had to live and dresson, and so do you. That child will like as not comehere with a passel o' things borrowed from therest o' the family. She'll have Hannah's shoes andJohn's undershirts and Mark's socks most likely.   I suppose she never had a thimble on her finger inher life, but she'll know the feelin' o' one beforeshe's ben here many days. I've bought a piece ofunbleached muslin and a piece o' brown ginghamfor her to make up; that'll keep her busy. Ofcourse she won't pick up anything after herself; sheprobably never see a duster, and she'll be as hardto train into our ways as if she was a heathen.""She'll make a dif'rence," acknowledged Jane,"but she may turn out more biddable 'n we think.""She'll mind when she's spoken to, biddable ornot," remarked Miranda with a shake of the lasttowel.   Miranda Sawyer had a heart, of course, but shehad never used it for any other purpose than thepumping and circulating of blood. She was just,conscientious, economical, industrious; a regularattendant at church and Sunday-school, and a memberof the State Missionary and Bible societies, butin the presence of all these chilly virtues you longedfor one warm little fault, or lacking that, one likablefailing, something to make you sure she wasthoroughly alive. She had never had any educationother than that of the neighborhood district school,for her desires and ambitions had all pointed to themanagement of the house, the farm, and the dairy.   Jane, on the other hand, had gone to an academy,and also to a boarding-school for young ladies; sohad Aurelia; and after all the years that had elapsedthere was still a slight difference in language andin manner between the elder and the two youngersisters.   Jane, too, had had the inestimable advantage of asorrow; not the natural grief at the loss of her agedfather and mother, for she had been content to letthem go; but something far deeper. She was engagedto marry young Tom Carter, who had nothingto marry on, it is true, but who was sure to have,some time or other. Then the war broke out. Tomenlisted at the first call. Up to that time Jane hadloved him with a quiet, friendly sort of affection, andhad given her country a mild emotion of the samesort. But the strife, the danger, the anxiety of thetime, set new currents of feeling in motion. Life becamesomething other than the three meals a day,the round of cooking, washing, sewing, and churchgoing. Personal gossip vanished from the villageconversation. Big things took the place of triflingones,--sacred sorrows of wives and mothers, pangsof fathers and husbands, self-denials, sympathies,new desire to bear one another's burdens. Menand women grew fast in those days of the nation'strouble and danger, and Jane awoke from the vaguedull dream she had hitherto called life to new hopes,new fears, new purposes. Then after a year's anxiety,a year when one never looked in the newspaperwithout dread and sickness of suspense, camethe telegram saying that Tom was wounded; andwithout so much as asking Miranda's leave, shepacked her trunk and started for the South. Shewas in time to hold Tom's hand through hours ofpain; to show him for once the heart of a prim NewEngland girl when it is ablaze with love and grief;to put her arms about him so that he could have ahome to die in, and that was all;--all, but it served.   It carried her through weary months of nursing--nursing of other soldiers for Tom's dear sake; itsent her home a better woman; and though she hadnever left Riverboro in all the years that lay between,and had grown into the counterfeit presentment ofher sister and of all other thin, spare, New Englandspinsters, it was something of a counterfeit, andunderneath was still the faint echo of that wild heart-beat of her girlhood. Having learned the trick ofbeating and loving and suffering, the poor faithfulheart persisted, although it lived on memoriesand carried on its sentimental operations mostly insecret.   "You're soft, Jane," said Miranda once; "youallers was soft, and you allers will be. If 't wa'n'tfor me keeping you stiffened up, I b'lieve you'dleak out o' the house into the dooryard."It was already past the appointed hour for Mr.   Cobb and his coach to be lumbering down thestreet.   "The stage ought to be here," said Miranda,glancing nervously at the tall clock for the twentiethtime. "I guess everything 's done. I'vetacked up two thick towels back of her washstandand put a mat under her slop-jar; but children areawful hard on furniture. I expect we sha'n't knowthis house a year from now."Jane's frame of mind was naturally depressedand timorous, having been affected by Miranda'sgloomy presages of evil to come. The only differencebetween the sisters in this matter was thatwhile Miranda only wondered how they could endureRebecca, Jane had flashes of inspiration inwhich she wondered how Rebecca would endurethem. It was in one of these flashes that she ranup the back stairs to put a vase of apple blossomsand a red tomato-pincushion on Rebecca's bureau.   The stage rumbled to the side door of the brickhouse, and Mr. Cobb handed Rebecca out like areal lady passenger. She alighted with greatcircumspection, put the bunch of faded flowers in heraunt Miranda's hand, and received her salute; itcould hardly be called a kiss without injuring thefair name of that commodity.   "You needn't 'a' bothered to bring flowers,"remarked that gracious and tactful lady; "the garden's always full of 'em here when it comes time."Jane then kissed Rebecca, giving a somewhatbetter imitation of the real thing than her sister.   "Put the trunk in the entry, Jeremiah, and we'llget it carried upstairs this afternoon," she said.   "I'll take it up for ye now, if ye say the word,girls.""No, no; don't leave the horses; somebody'llbe comin' past, and we can call 'em in.""Well, good-by, Rebecca; good-day, Mirandy 'n'   Jane. You've got a lively little girl there. I guessshe'll be a first-rate company keeper."Miss Sawyer shuddered openly at the adjective"lively" as applied to a child; her belief being thatthough children might be seen, if absolutely necessary,they certainly should never be heard if shecould help it. "We're not much used to noise, Janeand me," she remarked acidly.   Mr. Cobb saw that he had taken the wrong tack,but he was too unused to argument to explain himselfreadily, so he drove away, trying to think bywhat safer word than "lively" he might havedescribed his interesting little passenger.   "I'll take you up and show you your room,Rebecca," Miss Miranda said. "Shut the mosquitonettin' door tight behind you, so 's to keep the fliesout; it ain't flytime yet, but I want you to startright; take your passel along with ye and then youwon't have to come down for it; always make yourhead save your heels. Rub your feet on that braidedrug; hang your hat and cape in the entry there asyou go past.""It's my best hat," said Rebecca"Take it upstairs then and put it in the clothes-press; but I shouldn't 'a' thought you'd 'a' wornyour best hat on the stage.""It's my only hat," explained Rebecca. "Myeveryday hat wasn't good enough to bring. Fanny'sgoing to finish it.""Lay your parasol in the entry closet.""Do you mind if I keep it in my room, please?   It always seems safer.""There ain't any thieves hereabouts, and if therewas, I guess they wouldn't make for your sunshade,but come along. Remember to always go up theback way; we don't use the front stairs on accounto' the carpet; take care o' the turn and don't ketchyour foot; look to your right and go in. Whenyou've washed your face and hands and brushedyour hair you can come down, and by and bywe'll unpack your trunk and get you settled beforesupper. Ain't you got your dress on hind sid' foremost?"Rebecca drew her chin down and looked at therow of smoked pearl buttons running up and downthe middle of her flat little chest.   "Hind side foremost? Oh, I see! No, that's allright. If you have seven children you can't keepbuttonin' and unbuttonin' 'em all the time--theyhave to do themselves. We're always buttoned upin front at our house. Mira's only three, but she'sbuttoned up in front, too."Miranda said nothing as she closed the door, buther looks were at once equivalent to and moreeloquent than words.   Rebecca stood perfectly still in the centre of thefloor and looked about her. There was a square ofoilcloth in front of each article of furniture and adrawn-in rug beside the single four poster, whichwas covered with a fringed white dimity counterpane.   Everything was as neat as wax, but the ceilingswere much higher than Rebecca was accustomed to.   It was a north room, and the window, which waslong and narrow, looked out on the back buildingsand the barn.   It was not the room, which was far more comfortablethan Rebecca's own at the farm, nor the lackof view, nor yet the long journey, for she was notconscious of weariness; it was not the fear of astrange place, for she loved new places and courtednew sensations; it was because of some curiousblending of uncomprehended emotions that Rebeccastood her sunshade in the corner, tore off her besthat, flung it on the bureau with the porcupine quillson the under side, and stripping down the dimityspread, precipitated herself into the middle of thebed and pulled the counterpane over her head.   In a moment the door opened quietly. Knockingwas a refinement quite unknown in Riverboro, andif it had been heard of would never have beenwasted on a child.   Miss Miranda entered, and as her eye wanderedabout the vacant room, it fell upon a white andtempestuous ocean of counterpane, an ocean breakinginto strange movements of wave and crest and billow.   "REBECCA!"The tone in which the word was voiced gave it allthe effect of having been shouted from the housetopsA dark ruffled head and two frightened eyesappeared above the dimity spread.   "What are you layin' on your good bed in thedaytime for, messin' up the feathers, and dirtyin'   the pillers with your dusty boots?"Rebecca rose guiltily. There seemed no excuseto make. Her offense was beyond explanation orapology.   "I'm sorry, aunt Mirandy--something cameover me; I don't know what.""Well, if it comes over you very soon again we'llhave to find out what 't is. Spread your bed upsmooth this minute, for 'Bijah Flagg 's bringin' yourtrunk upstairs, and I wouldn't let him see such acluttered-up room for anything; he'd tell it all overtown."When Mr. Cobb had put up his horses that nighthe carried a kitchen chair to the side of his wife,who was sitting on the back porch.   "I brought a little Randall girl down on thestage from Maplewood to-day, mother. She's kin tothe Sawyer girls an' is goin' to live with 'em," hesaid, as he sat down and began to whittle. "She'sthat Aurelia's child, the one that ran away withSusan Randall's son just before we come here tolive.""How old a child?""'Bout ten, or somewhere along there, an' smallfor her age; but land! she might be a hundred tohear her talk! She kep' me jumpin' tryin' to an-swer her! Of all the queer children I ever comeacross she's the queerest. She ain't no beauty--her face is all eyes; but if she ever grows up tothem eyes an' fills out a little she'll make folksstare. Land, mother! I wish 't you could 'a' heardher talk.""I don't see what she had to talk about, a childlike that, to a stranger," replied Mrs. Cobb.   "Stranger or no stranger, 't wouldn't make nodifference to her. She'd talk to a pump or a grind-stun; she'd talk to herself ruther 'n keep still.""What did she talk about?""Blamed if I can repeat any of it. She kep' meso surprised I didn't have my wits about me. Shehad a little pink sunshade--it kind o' looked like adoll's amberill, 'n' she clung to it like a burr to awoolen stockin'. I advised her to open it up--thesun was so hot; but she said no, 't would fade, an'   she tucked it under her dress. `It's the dearestthing in life to me,' says she, `but it's a dreadfulcare.' Them 's the very words, an' it's all the wordsI remember. `It's the dearest thing in life to me, butit's an awful care!' "--here Mr. Cobb laughed aloudas he tipped his chair back against the side of thehouse. "There was another thing, but I can't getit right exactly. She was talkin' 'bout the circusparade an' the snake charmer in a gold chariot, an'   says she, `She was so beautiful beyond compare,Mr. Cobb, that it made you have lumps in yourthroat to look at her.' She'll be comin' over tosee you, mother, an' you can size her up foryourself. I don' know how she'll git on with MirandySawyer--poor little soul!"This doubt was more or less openly expressed inRiverboro, which, however, had two opinions on thesubject; one that it was a most generous thing inthe Sawyer girls to take one of Aurelia's childrento educate, the other that the education would bebought at a price wholly out of proportion to itsintrinsic value.   Rebecca's first letters to her mother would seemto indicate that she cordially coincided with thelatter view of the situation. Chapter 4 Rebecca's Point Of View Dear Mother,--I am safely here. Mydress was not much tumbled and AuntJane helped me press it out. I like Mr.   Cobb very much. He chews but throwsnewspapers straight up to the doors. I rode outside alittle while, but got inside before I got to AuntMiranda's house. I did not want to, but thoughtyou would like it better. Miranda is such a longword that I think I will say Aunt M. and Aunt J. inmy Sunday letters. Aunt J. has given me adictionary to look up all the hard words in. It takesa good deal of time and I am glad people can talkwithout stoping to spell. It is much eesier to talkthan write and much more fun. The brick houselooks just the same as you have told us. The parleris splendid and gives you creeps and chills when youlook in the door. The furnature is ellergant too, andall the rooms but there are no good sitting-downplaces exsept in the kitchen. The same cat is herebut they do not save kittens when she has them,and the cat is too old to play with. Hannah toldme once you ran away with father and I can see itwould be nice. If Aunt M. would run away I thinkI should like to live with Aunt J. She does not hateme as bad as Aunt M. does. Tell Mark he can havemy paint box, but I should like him to keep the redcake in case I come home again. I hope Hannahand John do not get tired doing my chores.   Your afectionate friendRebecca.   P. S. Please give the piece of poetry to John becausehe likes my poetry even when it is not very good.   This piece is not very good but it is true but I hopeyou won't mind what is in it as you ran away.   This house is dark and dull and dreerNo light doth shine from far or nearIts like the tomb.   And those of us who live hereinAre most as dead as serrafimThough not as good.   My gardian angel is asleepAt leest he doth no vigil keepAh I woe is me!   Then give me back my lonely farmWhere none alive did wish me harmDear home of youth!   P. S. again. I made the poetry like a piece in abook but could not get it right at first. You see"tomb" and "good" do not sound well together butI wanted to say "tomb" dreadfully and as serrafimare always "good" I couldn't take that out. Ihave made it over now. It does not say my thoughtsas well but think it is more right. Give the best oneto John as he keeps them in a box with his birds'   eggs. This is the best one.   SUNDAY THOUGHTSBYREBECCA ROWENA RANDALLThis house is dark and dull and drearNo light doth shine from far or nearNor ever could.   And those of us who live hereinAre most as dead as seraphimThough not as good.   My guardian angel is asleepAt least he doth no vigil keepBut far doth roam.   Then give me back my lonely farmWhere none alive did wish me harm,Dear childhood home!   Dear Mother,--I am thrilling with unhappynessthis morning. I got that out of Cora TheDoctor's Wife whose husband's mother was verycross and unfealing to her like Aunt M. to me. Iwish Hannah had come instead of me for it wasHannah that was wanted and she is better thanI am and does not answer back so quick. Arethere any peaces of my buff calico. Aunt J. wantsenough to make a new waste button behind so Iwont look so outlandish. The stiles are quite prettyin Riverboro and those at Meeting quite ellergantmore so than in Temperance.   This town is stilish, gay and fair,And full of wellthy riches rare,But I would pillow on my armThe thought of my sweet Brookside Farm.   School is pretty good. The Teacher can answermore questions than the Temperance one but not somany as I can ask. I am smarter than all the girlsbut one but not so smart as two boys. Emma Janecan add and subtract in her head like a streek oflightning and knows the speling book right throughbut has no thoughts of any kind. She is in theThird Reader but does not like stories in books. Iam in the Sixth Reader but just because I cannotsay the seven multiplication Table Miss Dearbornthrettens to put me in the baby primer class withElijah and Elisha Simpson little twins.   Sore is my heart and bent my stubborn pride,With Lijah and with Lisha am I tied,My soul recoyles like Cora Doctor's Wife,Like her I feer I cannot bare this life.   I am going to try for the speling prize but fearI cannot get it. I would not care but wrong spelinglooks dreadful in poetry. Last Sunday when Ifound seraphim in the dictionary I was ashamed Ihad made it serrafim but seraphim is not a word youcan guess at like another long one outlandish in thisletter which spells itself. Miss Dearborn says usethe words you CAN spell and if you cant spell seraphimmake angel do but angels are not just the sameas seraphims. Seraphims are brighter whiter andhave bigger wings and I think are older and longerdead than angels which are just freshly dead andafter a long time in heaven around the great whitethrone grow to be seraphims.   I sew on brown gingham dresses every afternoonwhen Emma Jane and the Simpsons are playinghouse or running on the Logs when their mothersdo not know it. Their mothers are afraid they willdrown and Aunt M. is afraid I will wet my clothesso will not let me either. I can play from half pastfour to supper and after supper a little bit and Saturdayafternoons. I am glad our cow has a calf and itis spotted. It is going to be a good year for applesand hay so you and John will be glad and we canpay a little more morgage. Miss Dearborn asked uswhat is the object of edducation and I said the objectof mine was to help pay off the morgage. She toldAunt M. and I had to sew extra for punishment becauseshe says a morgage is disgrace like stealingor smallpox and it will be all over town that we haveone on our farm. Emma Jane is not morgaged norRichard Carter nor Dr. Winship but the Simpsonsare.   Rise my soul, strain every nerve,Thy morgage to remove,Gain thy mother's heartfelt thanksThy family's grateful love.   Pronounce family QUICK or it won't sound rightYour loving little friendRebeccaDear John,--You remember when we tide thenew dog in the barn how he bit the rope andhowled I am just like him only the brick house isthe barn and I can not bite Aunt M. because Imust be grateful and edducation is going to be themaking of me and help you pay off the morgagewhen we grow up. Your lovingBecky. Chapter 5 Wisdom's Ways The day of Rebecca's arrival had beenFriday, and on the Monday following shebegan her education at the school whichwas in Riverboro Centre, about a mile distant.   Miss Sawyer borrowed a neighbor's horse andwagon and drove her to the schoolhouse, interviewingthe teacher, Miss Dearborn, arranging for books,and generally starting the child on the path thatwas to lead to boundless knowledge. Miss Dearborn,it may be said in passing, had had no specialpreparation in the art of teaching. It came to hernaturally, so her family said, and perhaps for thisreason she, like Tom Tulliver's clergyman tutor,"set about it with that uniformity of method andindependence of circumstances which distinguish theactions of animals understood to be under theimmediate teaching of Nature." You remember thebeaver which a naturalist tells us "busied himselfas earnestly in constructing a dam in a room upthree pair of stairs in London as if he had been layinghis foundation in a lake in Upper Canada. Itwas his function to build, the absence of water or ofpossible progeny was an accident for which he wasnot accountable." In the same manner did MissDearborn lay what she fondly imagined to befoundations in the infant mind.   Rebecca walked to school after the first morning.   She loved this part of the day's programme. Whenthe dew was not too heavy and the weather was fairthere was a short cut through the woods. She turnedoff the main road, crept through uncle Josh Woodman'sbars, waved away Mrs. Carter's cows, trod theshort grass of the pasture, with its well-worn pathrunning through gardens of buttercups and white-weed, and groves of ivory leaves and sweet fern.   She descended a little hill, jumped from stone tostone across a woodland brook, startling the drowsyfrogs, who were always winking and blinking in themorning sun. Then came the "woodsy bit," withher feet pressing the slippery carpet of brown pineneedles; the "woodsy bit" so full of dewy morning,surprises,--fungous growths of brilliant orange andcrimson springing up around the stumps of deadtrees, beautiful things born in a single night; andnow and then the miracle of a little clump of waxenIndian pipes, seen just quickly enough to be savedfrom her careless tread. Then she climbed a stile,went through a grassy meadow, slid under anotherpair of bars, and came out into the road again. havinggained nearly half a mile.   How delicious it all was! Rebecca clasped herQuackenbos's Grammar and Greenleaf's Arithmeticwith a joyful sense of knowing her lessons. Herdinner pail swung from her right hand, and shehad a blissful consciousness of the two soda biscuitsspread with butter and syrup, the baked cup-custard,the doughnut, and the square of hard gingerbread.   Sometimes she said whatever "piece" she was goingto speak on the next Friday afternoon.   "A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth ofwoman's tears."How she loved the swing and the sentiment of it!   How her young voice quivered whenever she came tothe refrain:--"But we'll meet no more at Bingen, dear Bingen on the Rhine."It always sounded beautiful in her ears, as shesent her tearful little treble into the clear morningair. Another early favorite (for we must rememberthat Rebecca's only knowledge of the great worldof poetry consisted of the selections in vogue inschool readers) was:--"Woodman, spare that tree!   Touch not a single bough!   In youth it sheltered me,And I'll protect it now."When Emma Jane Perkins walked through the"short cut" with her, the two children used to renderthis with appropriate dramatic action. EmmaJane always chose to be the woodman because shehad nothing to do but raise on high an imaginaryaxe. On the one occasion when she essayed thepart of the tree's romantic protector, she representedherself as feeling "so awful foolish" that sherefused to undertake it again, much to the secretdelight of Rebecca, who found the woodman's rolemuch too tame for her vaulting ambition. Shereveled in the impassioned appeal of the poet, andimplored the ruthless woodman to be as brutal aspossible with the axe, so that she might properlyput greater spirit into her lines. One morning, feelingmore frisky than usual, she fell upon her kneesand wept in the woodman's petticoat. Curiouslyenough, her sense of proportion rejected this assoon as it was done.   "That wasn't right, it was silly, Emma Jane; butI'll tell you where it might come in--in Give meThree Grains of Corn. You be the mother, andI'll be the famishing Irish child. For pity's sakeput the axe down; you are not the woodman anylonger!""What'll I do with my hands, then?" askedEmma Jane.   "Whatever you like," Rebecca answered wearily;"you're just a mother--that's all. What doesYOUR mother do with her hands? Now here goes!   "`Give me three grains of corn, mother,Only three grains of corn,'T will keep the little life I haveTill the coming of the morn.'"This sort of thing made Emma Jane nervous andfidgety, but she was Rebecca's slave and hugged herchains, no matter how uncomfortable they made her.   At the last pair of bars the two girls weresometimes met by a detachment of the Simpson children,who lived in a black house with a red door anda red barn behind, on the Blueberry Plains road.   Rebecca felt an interest in the Simpsons from thefirst, because there were so many of them and theywere so patched and darned, just like her own broodat the home farm.   The little schoolhouse with its flagpole on top andits two doors in front, one for boys and the otherfor girls, stood on the crest of a hill, with rollingfields and meadows on one side, a stretch of pinewoods on the other, and the river glinting andsparkling in the distance. It boasted no attractionswithin. All was as bare and ugly and uncomfortableas it well could be, for the villages along the riverexpended so much money in repairing and rebuildingbridges that they were obliged to be very economicalin school privileges. The teacher's desk and chairstood on a platform in one corner; there was anuncouth stove, never blackened oftener than oncea year, a map of the United States, two blackboards,a ten-quart tin pail of water and long-handled dipperon a corner shelf, and wooden desks and benchesfor the scholars, who only numbered twenty inRebecca's time. The seats were higher in the back ofthe room, and the more advanced and longer-leggedpupils sat there, the position being greatly to beenvied, as they were at once nearer to the windowsand farther from the teacher.   There were classes of a sort, although nobody,broadly speaking, studied the same book with anybodyelse, or had arrived at the same degree of proficiencyin any one branch of learning. Rebecca inparticular was so difficult to classify that Miss Dearbornat the end of a fortnight gave up the attemptaltogether. She read with Dick Carter and LivingPerkins, who were fitting for the academy; recitedarithmetic with lisping little Thuthan Thimpthon;geography with Emma Jane Perkins, and grammarafter school hours to Miss Dearborn alone. Full tothe brim as she was of clever thoughts and quaintfancies, she made at first but a poor hand at composition.   The labor of writing and spelling, with theadded difficulties of punctuation and capitals, interferedsadly with the free expression of ideas. Shetook history with Alice Robinson's class, whichwas attacking the subject of the Revolution, whileRebecca was bidden to begin with the discoveryof America. In a week she had masteredthe course of events up to the Revolution, and inten days had arrived at Yorktown, where the classhad apparently established summer quarters. Thenfinding that extra effort would only result in herreciting with the oldest Simpson boy, she delib-erately held herself back, for wisdom's ways werenot those of pleasantness nor her paths those ofpeace if one were compelled to tread them in thecompany of Seesaw Simpson. Samuel Simpson wasgenerally called Seesaw, because of his difficulty inmaking up his mind. Whether it were a questionof fact, of spelling, or of date, of going swimmingor fishing, of choosing a book in the Sunday-schoollibrary or a stick of candy at the village store, hehad no sooner determined on one plan of actionthan his wish fondly reverted to the opposite one.   Seesaw was pale, flaxen haired, blue eyed, roundshouldered, and given to stammering when nervous.   Perhaps because of his very weakness Rebecca'sdecision of character had a fascination for him, andalthough she snubbed him to the verge of madness,he could never keep his eyes away from her. Theforce with which she tied her shoe when the lacingcame undone, the flirt over shoulder she gave herblack braid when she was excited or warm, hermanner of studying,--book on desk, arms folded,eyes fixed on the opposite wall,--all had an abidingcharm for Seesaw Simpson. When, having obtainedpermission, she walked to the water pail in thecorner and drank from the dipper, unseen forcesdragged Seesaw from his seat to go and drink afterher. It was not only that there was something akinto association and intimacy in drinking next, butthere was the fearful joy of meeting her in transitand receiving a cold and disdainful look from herwonderful eyes.   On a certain warm day in summer Rebecca'sthirst exceeded the bounds of propriety. When sheasked a third time for permission to quench it at thecommon fountain Miss Dearborn nodded "yes," butlifted her eyebrows unpleasantly as Rebecca nearedthe desk. As she replaced the dipper Seesawpromptly raised his hand, and Miss Dearbornindicated a weary affirmative.   "What is the matter with you, Rebecca?" sheasked.   "I had salt mackerel for breakfast," answeredRebecca.   There seemed nothing humorous about this reply,which was merely the statement of a fact, but anirrepressible titter ran through the school. MissDearborn did not enjoy jokes neither made norunderstood by herself, and her face flushed.   "I think you had better stand by the pail for fiveminutes, Rebecca; it may help you to control yourthirst."Rebecca's heart fluttered. She to stand in thecorner by the water pail and be stared at by allthe scholars! She unconsciously made a gestureof angry dissent and moved a step nearer her seat,but was arrested by Miss Dearborn's command ina still firmer voice.   "Stand by the pail, Rebecca! Samuel, how manytimes have you asked for water to-day?"This is the f-f-fourth.""Don't touch the dipper, please. The school hasdone nothing but drink this afternoon; it has hadno time whatever to study. I suppose you had somethingsalt for breakfast, Samuel?" queried MissDearborn with sarcasm.   "I had m-m-mackerel, j-just like Reb-b-becca."(Irrepressible giggles by the school.)"I judged so. Stand by the other side of the pail,Samuel."Rebecca's head was bowed with shame and wrath.   Life looked too black a thing to be endured. Thepunishment was bad enough, but to be coupled incorrection with Seesaw Simpson was beyond humanendurance.   Singing was the last exercise in the afternoon,and Minnie Smellie chose Shall we Gather at theRiver? It was a baleful choice and seemed to holdsome secret and subtle association with the situationand general progress of events; or at any rate therewas apparently some obscure reason for the energyand vim with which the scholars shouted the choralinvitation again and again:--"Shall we gather at the river,The beautiful, the beautiful river?"Miss Dearborn stole a look at Rebecca's bent headand was frightened. The child's face was pale savefor two red spots glowing on her cheeks. Tearshung on her lashes; her breath came and wentquickly, and the hand that held her pockethandkerchief trembled like a leaf.   "You may go to your seat, Rebecca," said MissDearborn at the end of the first song. "Samuel,stay where you are till the close of school. And letme tell you, scholars, that I asked Rebecca to standby the pail only to break up this habit of incessantdrinking, which is nothing but empty-mindednessand desire to walk to and fro over the floor. Everytime Rebecca has asked for a drink to-day the wholeschool has gone to the pail one after another. Sheis really thirsty, and I dare say I ought to havepunished you for following her example, not her forsetting it. What shall we sing now, Alice?""The Old Oaken Bucket, please.""Think of something dry, Alice, and change thesubject. Yes, The Star Spangled Banner if youlike, or anything else."Rebecca sank into her seat and pulled the singingbook from her desk. Miss Dearborn's public explanationhad shifted some of the weight from herheart, and she felt a trifle raised in her self-esteem.   Under cover of the general relaxation of singing,votive offerings of respectful sympathy began tomake their appearance at her shrine. Living Perkins,who could not sing, dropped a piece of maplesugar in her lap as he passed her on his way to theblackboard to draw the map of Maine. Alice Rob-inson rolled a perfectly new slate pencil over thefloor with her foot until it reached Rebecca's place,while her seat-mate, Emma Jane, had made up alittle mound of paper balls and labeled them"Bullets for you know who."Altogether existence grew brighter, and whenshe was left alone with the teacher for her grammarlesson she had nearly recovered her equanimity,which was more than Miss Dearborn had. The lastclattering foot had echoed through the hall, Seesaw'sbackward glance of penitence had been metand answered defiantly by one of cold disdain.   "Rebecca, I am afraid I punished you more than Imeant," said Miss Dearborn, who was only eighteenherself, and in her year of teaching country schoolshad never encountered a child like Rebecca.   "I hadn't missed a question this whole day, norwhispered either," quavered the culprit; "and I don'tthink I ought to be shamed just for drinking.""You started all the others, or it seemed as ifyou did. Whatever you do they all do, whether youlaugh, or miss, or write notes, or ask to leave theroom, or drink; and it must be stopped.""Sam Simpson is a copycoat!" stormed Rebecca"I wouldn't have minded standing in the corneralone--that is, not so very much; but I couldn'tbear standing with him.""I saw that you couldn't, and that's the reasonI told you to take your seat, and left him in thecorner. Remember that you are a stranger in theplace, and they take more notice of what you do,so you must be careful. Now let's have ourconjugations. Give me the verb `to be,' potential mood,past perfect tense.""I might have been "We might have beenThou mightst have been You might have beenHe might have been They might have been.""Give me an example, please.""I might have been gladThou mightst have been gladHe, she, or it might have been glad.""`He' or `she' might have been glad becausethey are masculine and feminine, but could `it'   have been glad?" asked Miss Dearborn, who wasvery fond of splitting hairs.   "Why not?" asked Rebecca"Because `it' is neuter gender.""Couldn't we say, `The kitten might havebeen glad if it had known it was not going to bedrowned'?""Ye--es," Miss Dearborn answered hesitatingly,never very sure of herself under Rebecca's fire;"but though we often speak of a baby, a chicken, ora kitten as `it,' they are really masculine or femininegender, not neuter."Rebecca reflected a long moment and then asked,"Is a hollyhock neuter?""Oh yes, of course it is, Rebecca""Well, couldn't we say, `The hollyhock mighthave been glad to see the rain, but there was a weaklittle hollyhock bud growing out of its stalk and itwas afraid that that might be hurt by the storm;so the big hollyhock was kind of afraid, instead ofbeing real glad'?"Miss Dearborn looked puzzled as she answered,"Of course, Rebecca, hollyhocks could not besorry, or glad, or afraid, really.""We can't tell, I s'pose," replied the child; "but_I_ think they are, anyway. Now what shall I say?""The subjunctive mood, past perfect tense ofthe verb `to know.'""If I had known "If we had knownIf thou hadst known If you had knownIf he had known If they had known.   "Oh, it is the saddest tense," sighed Rebeccawith a little break in her voice; "nothing but IFS,IFS, IFS! And it makes you feel that if they onlyHAD known, things might have been better!"Miss Dearborn had not thought of it before,but on reflection she believed the subjunctive moodwas a "sad" one and "if" rather a sorry "part ofspeech.""Give me some more examples of the subjunctive,Rebecca, and that will do for this afternoon," shesaid.   "If I had not loved mackerel I should not havebeen thirsty;" said Rebecca with an April smile,as she closed her grammar. "If thou hadst lovedme truly thou wouldst not have stood me up in thecorner. If Samuel had not loved wickedness hewould not have followed me to the water pail.""And if Rebecca had loved the rules of theschool she would have controlled her thirst," finishedMiss Dearborn with a kiss, and the two partedfriends. Chapter 6 Sunshine In A Shady Place The little schoolhouse on the hill had itsmoments of triumph as well as its scenesof tribulation, but it was fortunate thatRebecca had her books and her new acquaintancesto keep her interested and occupied, or life wouldhave gone heavily with her that first summer inRiverboro. She tried to like her aunt Miranda (theidea of loving her had been given up at the momentof meeting), but failed ignominiously in the attempt.   She was a very faulty and passionately human child,with no aspirations towards being an angel of thehouse, but she had a sense of duty and a desire tobe good,--respectably, decently good. Whenevershe fell below this self-imposed standard she wasmiserable. She did not like to be under her aunt'sroof, eating bread, wearing clothes, and studyingbooks provided by her, and dislike her so heartilyall the time. She felt instinctively that this waswrong and mean, and whenever the feeling of remorsewas strong within her she made a desperateeffort to please her grim and difficult relative. Buthow could she succeed when she was never herself inher aunt Miranda's presence? The searching lookof the eyes, the sharp voice, the hard knotty fingers,the thin straight lips, the long silences, the "front-piece" that didn't match her hair, the very obvious"parting" that seemed sewed in with linen thread onblack net,--there was not a single item that appealedto Rebecca. There are certain narrow, unimaginative,and autocratic old people who seem to call outthe most mischievous, and sometimes the worsttraits in children. Miss Miranda, had she lived in apopulous neighborhood, would have had her doorbellpulled, her gate tied up, or "dirt traps" set in hergarden paths. The Simpson twins stood in suchawe of her that they could not be persuaded to cometo the side door even when Miss Jane held gingerbreadcookies in her outstretched hands.   It is needless to say that Rebecca irritated heraunt with every breath she drew. She continuallyforgot and started up the front stairs because it wasthe shortest route to her bedroom; she left thedipper on the kitchen shelf instead of hanging it upover the pail; she sat in the chair the cat liked best;she was willing to go on errands, but often forgotwhat she was sent for; she left the screen doorsajar, so that flies came in; her tongue was ever inmotion; she sang or whistled when she was pickingup chips; she was always messing with flowers,putting them in vases, pinning them on her dress,and sticking them in her hat; finally she was aneverlasting reminder of her foolish, worthless father,whose handsome face and engaging manner hadso deceived Aurelia, and perhaps, if the facts wereknown, others besides Aurelia. The Randalls werealiens. They had not been born in Riverboro noreven in York County. Miranda would have allowed,on compulsion, that in the nature of things a largenumber of persons must necessarily be born outsidethis sacred precinct; but she had her opinion ofthem, and it was not a flattering one. Now if Hannahhad come--Hannah took after the other side of thehouse; she was "all Sawyer." (Poor Hannah! thatwas true!) Hannah spoke only when spoken to,instead of first, last, and all the time; Hannah atfourteen was a member of the church; Hannah liked toknit; Hannah was, probably, or would have been, apattern of all the smaller virtues; instead of whichhere was this black-haired gypsy, with eyes as bigas cartwheels, installed as a member of the household.   What sunshine in a shady place was aunt Janeto Rebecca! Aunt Jane with her quiet voice, herunderstanding eyes, her ready excuses, in these firstdifficult weeks, when the impulsive little strangerwas trying to settle down into the "brick houseways." She did learn them, in part, and by degrees,and the constant fitting of herself to these new anddifficult standards of conduct seemed to make herolder than ever for her years.   The child took her sewing and sat beside auntJane in the kitchen while aunt Miranda had the postof observation at the sitting-room window. Sometimesthey would work on the side porch where theclematis and woodbine shaded them from the hotsun. To Rebecca the lengths of brown ginghamwere interminable. She made hard work of sewing,broke the thread, dropped her thimble into thesyringa bushes, pricked her finger, wiped theperspiration from her forehead, could not match thechecks, puckered the seams. She polished her needlesto nothing, pushing them in and out of the emerystrawberry, but they always squeaked. Still auntJane's patience held good, and some small measureof skill was creeping into Rebecca's fingers, fingersthat held pencil, paint brush, and pen so cleverly andwere so clumsy with the dainty little needle.   When the first brown gingham frock wascompleted, the child seized what she thought anopportune moment and asked her aunt Miranda if shemight have another color for the next one.   "I bought a whole piece of the brown," saidMiranda laconically. "That'll give you two moredresses, with plenty for new sleeves, and to patchand let down with, an' be more economical.""I know. But Mr. Watson says he'll take backpart of it, and let us have pink and blue for thesame price.""Did you ask him?""Yes'm.""It was none o' your business.""I was helping Emma Jane choose aprons, anddidn't think you'd mind which color I had. Pinkkeeps clean just as nice as brown, and Mr. Watsonsays it'll boil without fading.""Mr. Watson 's a splendid judge of washing, Iguess. I don't approve of children being riggedout in fancy colors, but I'll see what your auntJane thinks.""I think it would be all right to let Rebeccahave one pink and one blue gingham," said Jane.   "A child gets tired of sewing on one color. It'sonly natural she should long for a change; besidesshe'd look like a charity child always wearing thesame brown with a white apron. And it's dreadfulunbecoming to her!""`Handsome is as handsome does,' say I.   Rebecca never'll come to grief along of her beauty,that's certain, and there's no use in humoring herto think about her looks. I believe she's vain as apeacock now, without anything to be vain of.""She's young and attracted to bright things--that's all. I remember well enough how I felt at herage.""You was considerable of a fool at her age,Jane.""Yes, I was, thank the Lord! I only wish I'dknown how to take a little of my foolishness alongwith me, as some folks do, to brighten my decliningyears."There finally was a pink gingham, and when it wasnicely finished, aunt Jane gave Rebecca a delightfulsurprise. She showed her how to make a prettytrimming of narrow white linen tape, by folding itin pointed shapes and sewing it down very flat withneat little stitches.   "It'll be good fancy work for you, Rebecca; foryour aunt Miranda won't like to see you alwaysreading in the long winter evenings. Now if youthink you can baste two rows of white tape roundthe bottom of your pink skirt and keep it straightby the checks, I'll stitch them on for you and trimthe waist and sleeves with pointed tape-trimming,so the dress'll be real pretty for second best."Rebecca's joy knew no bounds. "I'll bastelike a house afire!" she exclaimed. "It's a thousandyards round that skirt, as well I know, havinghemmed it; but I could sew pretty trimming on ifit was from here to Milltown. Oh! do you thinkaunt Mirandy'll ever let me go to Milltown withMr. Cobb? He's asked me again, you know; butone Saturday I had to pick strawberries, and anotherit rained, and I don't think she really approves ofmy going. It's TWENTY-NINE minutes past four, auntJane, and Alice Robinson has been sitting underthe currant bushes for a long time waiting for me.   Can I go and play?""Yes, you may go, and you'd better run as far asyou can out behind the barn, so 't your noise won'tdistract your aunt Mirandy. I see Susan Simpsonand the twins and Emma Jane Perkins hiding behindthe fence."Rebecca leaped off the porch, snatched AliceRobinson from under the currant bushes, and,what was much more difficult, succeeded, by meansof a complicated system of signals, in getting EmmaJane away from the Simpson party and giving themthe slip altogether. They were much too small forcertain pleasurable activities planned for thatafternoon; but they were not to be despised, for theyhad the most fascinating dooryard in the village. Init, in bewildering confusion, were old sleighs, pungs,horse rakes, hogsheads, settees without backs, bed-steads without heads, in all stages of disability, andnever the same on two consecutive days. Mrs.   Simpson was seldom at home, and even when shewas, had little concern as to what happened on thepremises. A favorite diversion was to make thehouse into a fort, gallantly held by a handful ofAmerican soldiers against a besieging force of theBritish army. Great care was used in apportioningthe parts, for there was no disposition to letanybody win but the Americans. Seesaw Simpsonwas usually made commander-in-chief of the Britisharmy, and a limp and uncertain one he was, capable,with his contradictory orders and his fondnessfor the extreme rear, of leading any regiment toan inglorious death. Sometimes the long-sufferinghouse was a log hut, and the brave settlers defeateda band of hostile Indians, or occasionally weremassacred by them; but in either case the Simpsonhouse looked, to quote a Riverboro expression, "asif the devil had been having an auction in it."Next to this uncommonly interesting playground,as a field of action, came, in the children's opinion,the "secret spot." There was a velvety stretchof ground in the Sawyer pasture which was full offascinating hollows and hillocks, as well as verdantlevels, on which to build houses. A group of treesconcealed it somewhat from view and flung a gratefulshade over the dwellings erected there. It hadbeen hard though sweet labor to take armfuls of"stickins" and "cutrounds" from the mill to thissecluded spot, and that it had been done mostlyafter supper in the dusk of the evenings gave ita still greater flavor. Here in soap boxes hiddenamong the trees were stored all their treasures:   wee baskets and plates and cups made of burdockballs, bits of broken china for parties, dolls, soonto be outgrown, but serving well as characters inall sorts of romances enacted there,--deaths,funerals, weddings, christenings. A tall, square houseof stickins was to be built round Rebecca thisafternoon, and she was to be Charlotte Cordayleaning against the bars of her prison.   It was a wonderful experience standing inside thebuilding with Emma Jane's apron wound about herhair; wonderful to feel that when she leaned herhead against the bars they seemed to turn to coldiron; that her eyes were no longer Rebecca Randall'sbut mirrored something of Charlotte Corday'shapless woe.   "Ain't it lovely?" sighed the humble twain, whohad done most of the labor, but who generouslyadmired the result.   "I hate to have to take it down," said Alice,"it's been such a sight of work.""If you think you could move up some stonesand just take off the top rows, I could step outover," suggested Charlotte Corday. "Then leavethe stones, and you two can step down into theprison to-morrow and be the two little princes inthe Tower, and I can murder you.""What princes? What tower?" asked Alice andEmma Jane in one breath. "Tell us about them.""Not now, it's my supper time." (Rebecca wasa somewhat firm disciplinarian.)"It would be elergant being murdered by you,"said Emma Jane loyally, "though you are awfulreal when you murder; or we could have Elijah andElisha for the princes.""They'd yell when they was murdered," objectedAlice; "you know how silly they are at plays, allexcept Clara Belle. Besides if we once show themthis secret place, they'll play in it all the time, andperhaps they'd steal things, like their father.""They needn't steal just because their fatherdoes," argued Rebecca; "and don't you ever talkabout it before them if you want to be my secret,partic'lar friends. My mother tells me never to sayhard things about people's own folks to their face.   She says nobody can bear it, and it's wicked to shamethem for what isn't their fault. Remember MinnieSmellie!"Well, they had no difficulty in recalling thatdramatic episode, for it had occurred only a few daysbefore; and a version of it that would have meltedthe stoniest heart had been presented to every girlin the village by Minnie Smellie herself, who,though it was Rebecca and not she who came offvictorious in the bloody battle of words, nursed herresentment and intended to have revenge. Chapter 7 Riverboro Secrets Mr. Simpson spent little time with hisfamily, owing to certain awkward methodsof horse-trading, or the "swapping"of farm implements and vehicles of various kinds,--operations in which his customers were never longsuited. After every successful trade he generallypassed a longer or shorter term in jail; for when apoor man without goods or chattels has the inveteratehabit of swapping, it follows naturally that hemust have something to swap; and having nothingof his own, it follows still more naturally that hemust swap something belonging to his neighbors.   Mr. Simpson was absent from the home circlefor the moment because he had exchanged theWidow Rideout's sleigh for Joseph Goodwin'splough. Goodwin had lately moved to NorthEdgewood and had never before met the urbaneand persuasive Mr. Simpson. The Goodwin ploughMr. Simpson speedily bartered with a man "overWareham way," and got in exchange for it an oldhorse which his owner did not need, as he wasleaving town to visit his daughter for a year,Simpson fattened the aged animal, keeping him forseveral weeks (at early morning or after nightfall) inone neighbor's pasture after another, and thenexchanged him with a Milltown man for a top buggy.   It was at this juncture that the Widow Rideoutmissed her sleigh from the old carriage house.   She had not used it for fifteen years and mightnot sit in it for another fifteen, but it wasproperty, and she did not intend to part with itwithout a struggle. Such is the suspicious nature ofthe village mind that the moment she discoveredher loss her thought at once reverted to AbnerSimpson. So complicated, however, was the natureof this particular business transaction, and sotortuous the paths of its progress (partly owing to thecomplete disappearance of the owner of the horse,who had gone to the West and left no address),that it took the sheriff many weeks to prove Mr.   Simpson's guilt to the town's and to the WidowRideout's satisfaction. Abner himself avowed hiscomplete innocence, and told the neighbors howa red-haired man with a hare lip and a pepper-and-salt suit of clothes had called him up one morningabout daylight and offered to swap him a goodsleigh for an old cider press he had layin' out inthe dooryard. The bargain was struck, and he,Abner, had paid the hare-lipped stranger four dollarsand seventy-five cents to boot; whereupon themysterious one set down the sleigh, took the presson his cart, and vanished up the road, never to beseen or heard from afterwards.   "If I could once ketch that consarned old thief,"exclaimed Abner righteously, "I'd make himdance,--workin' off a stolen sleigh on me an'   takin' away my good money an' cider press, to saynothin' o' my character!""You'll never ketch him, Ab," responded thesheriff. "He's cut off the same piece o' goods asthat there cider press and that there character andthat there four-seventy-five o' yourn; nobody eversee any of 'em but you, and you'll never see 'emagain!"Mrs. Simpson, who was decidedly Abner's betterhalf, took in washing and went out to do days'   cleaning, and the town helped in the feeding andclothing of the children. George, a lanky boy offourteen, did chores on neighboring farms, andthe others, Samuel, Clara Belle, Susan, Elijah, andElisha, went to school, when sufficiently clothedand not otherwise more pleasantly engaged.   There were no secrets in the villages that layalong the banks of Pleasant River. There weremany hard-working people among the inhabitants,but life wore away so quietly and slowly that therewas a good deal of spare time for conversation,--under the trees at noon in the hayfield; hangingover the bridge at nightfall; seated about thestove in the village store of an evening. Thesemeeting-places furnished ample ground for thediscussion of current events as viewed by the mas-culine eye, while choir rehearsals, sewing societies,reading circles, church picnics, and the like, gaveopportunity for the expression of feminine opinion.   All this was taken very much for granted, as arule, but now and then some supersensitive personmade violent objections to it, as a theory of life.   Delia Weeks, for example, was a maiden ladywho did dressmaking in a small way; she fell ill,and although attended by all the physicians inthe neighborhood, was sinking slowly into adecline when her cousin Cyrus asked her to come andkeep house for him in Lewiston. She went, and ina year grew into a robust, hearty, cheerful woman.   Returning to Riverboro on a brief visit, she wasasked if she meant to end her days away fromhome.   "I do most certainly, if I can get any otherplace to stay," she responded candidly. "I wasbein' worn to a shadder here, tryin' to keep mylittle secrets to myself, an' never succeedin'. Firstthey had it I wanted to marry the minister, andwhen he took a wife in Standish I was known tobe disappointed. Then for five or six years theysuspicioned I was tryin' for a place to teach school,and when I gave up hope, an' took to dressmakin',they pitied me and sympathized with me for that.   When father died I was bound I'd never let anybodyknow how I was left, for that spites 'emworse than anything else; but there's ways o'   findin' out, an' they found out, hard as I fought'em! Then there was my brother James that wentto Arizona when he was sixteen. I gave good newsof him for thirty years runnin', but aunt AchsyTarbox had a ferretin' cousin that went out toTombstone for her health, and she wrote to apostmaster, or to some kind of a town authority, andfound Jim and wrote back aunt Achsy all abouthim and just how unfortunate he'd been. Theyknew when I had my teeth out and a new setmade; they knew when I put on a false front-piece; they knew when the fruit peddler askedme to be his third wife--I never told 'em, an' youcan be sure HE never did, but they don't NEED to betold in this village; they have nothin' to do butguess, an' they'll guess right every time. I wasall tuckered out tryin' to mislead 'em and deceive'em and sidetrack 'em; but the minute I got whereI wa'n't put under a microscope by day an' atelescope by night and had myself TO myself withoutsayin' `By your leave,' I begun to pick up. CousinCyrus is an old man an' consid'able trouble, but hethinks my teeth are handsome an' says I've gota splendid suit of hair. There ain't a person inLewiston that knows about the minister, or father'swill, or Jim's doin's, or the fruit peddler; an' ifthey should find out, they wouldn't care, an' theycouldn't remember; for Lewiston 's a busy place,thanks be!"Miss Delia Weeks may have exaggerated matterssomewhat, but it is easy to imagine that Rebeccaas well as all the other Riverboro childrenhad heard the particulars of the Widow Rideout'smissing sleigh and Abner Simpson's supposedconnection with it.   There is not an excess of delicacy or chivalry inthe ordinary country school, and several choiceconundrums and bits of verse dealing with the Simpsonaffair were bandied about among the scholars,uttered always, be it said to their credit, inundertones, and when the Simpson children were not inthe group.   Rebecca Randall was of precisely the same stock,and had had much the same associations as herschoolmates, so one can hardly say why she so hatedmean gossip and so instinctively held herself alooffrom it.   Among the Riverboro girls of her own age was acertain excellently named Minnie Smellie, who wasanything but a general favorite. She was a ferret-eyed, blond-haired, spindle-legged little creaturewhose mind was a cross between that of a parrotand a sheep. She was suspected of copying answersfrom other girls' slates, although she hadnever been caught in the act. Rebecca and EmmaJane always knew when she had brought a tart ora triangle of layer cake with her school luncheon,because on those days she forsook the cheerfulsociety of her mates and sought a safe solitude inthe woods, returning after a time with a jocundsmile on her smug face.   After one of these private luncheons Rebeccahad been tempted beyond her strength, and whenMinnie took her seat among them asked, "Is yourheadache better, Minnie? Let me wipe off thatstrawberry jam over your mouth."There was no jam there as a matter of fact,but the guilty Minnie's handkerchief went to hercrimson face in a flash.   Rebecca confessed to Emma Jane that sameafternoon that she felt ashamed of her prank. "Ido hate her ways," she exclaimed, "but I'm sorryI let her know we 'spected her; and so to makeup, I gave her that little piece of broken coral Ikeep in my bead purse; you know the one?""It don't hardly seem as if she deserved that,and her so greedy," remarked Emma Jane.   "I know it, but it makes me feel better," saidRebecca largely; "and then I've had it two years,and it's broken so it wouldn't ever be any realgood, beautiful as it is to look at."The coral had partly served its purpose as areconciling bond, when one afternoon Rebecca,who had stayed after school for her grammar lessonas usual, was returning home by way of theshort cut. Far ahead, beyond the bars, she espiedthe Simpson children just entering the woodsybit. Seesaw was not with them, so she hastenedher steps in order to secure company on her homewardwalk. They were speedily lost to view, butwhen she had almost overtaken them she heard,in the trees beyond, Minnie Smellie's voice liftedhigh in song, and the sound of a child's sobbing.   Clara Belle, Susan, and the twins were runningalong the path, and Minnie was dancing up anddown, shrieking:--"`What made the sleigh love Simpson so?'   The eager children cried;`Why Simpson loved the sleigh, you know,'   The teacher quick replied."The last glimpse of the routed Simpson tribe,and the last Rutter of their tattered garments,disappeared in the dim distance. The fall of one smallstone cast by the valiant Elijah, known as "the fightingtwin," did break the stillness of the woods fora moment, but it did not come within a hundredyards of Minnie, who shouted "Jail Birds" at thetop of her lungs and then turned, with an agreeablefeeling of excitement, to meet Rebecca, standingperfectly still in the path, with a day of reckoningplainly set forth in her blazing eyes.   Minnie's face was not pleasant to see, for a cowarddetected at the moment of wrongdoing is notan object of delight.   "Minnie Smellie, if ever--I--catch--you--singing--that--to the Simpsons again--do youknow what I'll do?" asked Rebecca in a tone ofconcentrated rage.   "I don't know and I don't care," said Minniejauntily, though her looks belied her.   "I'll take that piece of coral away from you, andI THINK I shall slap you besides!""You wouldn't darst," retorted Minnie. "Ifyou do, I'll tell my mother and the teacher, sothere!""I don't care if you tell your mother, my mother,and all your relations, and the president," saidRebecca, gaining courage as the noble words fell fromher lips. "I don't care if you tell the town, thewhole of York county, the state of Maine and--and the nation!" she finished grandiloquently.   "Now you run home and remember what I say.   If you do it again, and especially if you say `JailBirds,' if I think it's right and my duty, I shallpunish you somehow."The next morning at recess Rebecca observedMinnie telling the tale with variations to HuldahMeserve. "She THREATENED me," whispered Minnie,"but I never believe a word she says."The latter remark was spoken with the directintention of being overheard, for Minnie had spasmsof bravery, when well surrounded by the machineryof law and order.   As Rebecca went back to her seat she askedMiss Dearborn if she might pass a note to MinnieSmellie and received permission. This was the note:--Of all the girls that are so meanThere's none like Minnie Smellie.   I'll take away the gift I gaveAnd pound her into jelly.   _P. S. Now do you believe me?_R. Randall.   The effect of this piece of doggerel was entirelyconvincing, and for days afterwards whenever Minniemet the Simpsons even a mile from the brickhouse she shuddered and held her peace. Chapter 8 Color Of Rose On the very next Friday after this"dreadfullest fight that ever was seen," asBunyan says in Pilgrim's Progress, there weregreat doings in the little schoolhouse on the hill.   Friday afternoon was always the time chosen fordialogues, songs, and recitations, but it cannot bestated that it was a gala day in any true sense ofthe word. Most of the children hated "speakingpieces;" hated the burden of learning them,dreaded the danger of breaking down in them.   Miss Dearborn commonly went home with a headache,and never left her bed during the rest of theafternoon or evening; and the casual female parentwho attended the exercises sat on a front benchwith beads of cold sweat on her forehead, listeningto the all-too-familiar halts and stammers. Sometimesa bellowing infant who had clean forgotten hisverse would cast himself bodily on the maternalbosom and be borne out into the open air, where hewas sometimes kissed and occasionally spanked;but in any case the failure added an extra dashof gloom and dread to the occasion. The adventof Rebecca had somehow infused a new spiritinto these hitherto terrible afternoons. She hadtaught Elijah and Elisha Simpson so that theyrecited three verses of something with such comicaleffect that they delighted themselves, the teacher,and the school; while Susan, who lisped, had beenprovided with a humorous poem in which sheimpersonated a lisping child. Emma Jane andRebecca had a dialogue, and the sense of companionshipbuoyed up Emma Jane and gave her self-reliance. In fact, Miss Dearborn announced onthis particular Friday morning that the exercisespromised to be so interesting that she had invitedthe doctor's wife, the minister's wife, two membersof the school committee, and a few mothers. LivingPerkins was asked to decorate one of the black-boards and Rebecca the other. Living, who wasthe star artist of the school, chose the map of NorthAmerica. Rebecca liked better to draw thingsless realistic, and speedily, before the eyes of theenchanted multitude, there grew under her skillfulfingers an American flag done in red, white,and blue chalk, every star in its right place, everystripe fluttering in the breeze. Beside thisappeared a figure of Columbia, copied from the topof the cigar box that held the crayons.   Miss Dearborn was delighted. "I propose wegive Rebecca a good hand-clapping for such abeautiful picture--one that the whole school maywell be proud of!"The scholars clapped heartily, and Dick Carter,waving his hand, gave a rousing cheer.   Rebecca's heart leaped for joy, and to herconfusion she felt the tears rising in her eyes. Shecould hardly see the way back to her seat, for inher ignorant lonely little life she had never beensingled out for applause, never lauded, nor crowned,as in this wonderful, dazzling moment. If "noblenessenkindleth nobleness," so does enthusiasmbeget enthusiasm, and so do wit and talent enkindlewit and talent. Alice Robinson proposed thatthe school should sing Three Cheers for the Red,White, and Blue! and when they came to thechorus, all point to Rebecca's flag. Dick Cartersuggested that Living Perkins and Rebecca Randallshould sign their names to their pictures, sothat the visitors would know who drew them. HuldahMeserve asked permission to cover the largestholes in the plastered walls with boughs and fill thewater pail with wild flowers. Rebecca's mood wasabove and beyond all practical details. She satsilent, her heart so full of grateful joy that shecould hardly remember the words of her dialogue.   At recess she bore herself modestly, notwithstandingher great triumph, while in the general atmosphereof good will the Smellie-Randall hatchet wasburied and Minnie gathered maple boughs and coveredthe ugly stove with them, under Rebecca'sdirection.   Miss Dearborn dismissed the morning sessionat quarter to twelve, so that those who lived nearenough could go home for a change of dress.   Emma Jane and Rebecca ran nearly every step ofthe way, from sheer excitement, only stopping tobreathe at the stiles.   "Will your aunt Mirandy let you wear your best,or only your buff calico?" asked Emma Jane.   "I think I'll ask aunt Jane," Rebecca replied.   "Oh! if my pink was only finished! I left auntJane making the buttonholes!""I'm going to ask my mother to let me wearher garnet ring," said Emma Jane. "It would lookperfectly elergant flashing in the sun when I pointto the flag. Good-by; don't wait for me goingback; I may get a ride."Rebecca found the side door locked, but sheknew that the key was under the step, and so ofcourse did everybody else in Riverboro, for theyall did about the same thing with it. She unlockedthe door and went into the dining-room to find herlunch laid on the table and a note from aunt Janesaying that they had gone to Moderation with Mrs.   Robinson in her carryall. Rebecca swallowed apiece of bread and butter, and flew up the frontstairs to her bedroom. On the bed lay the pinkgingham dress finished by aunt Jane's kind hands.   Could she, dare she, wear it without asking? Didthe occasion justify a new costume, or would heraunts think she ought to keep it for the concert?   "I'll wear it," thought Rebecca. "They're nothere to ask, and maybe they wouldn't mind a bit;it's only gingham after all, and wouldn't be sogrand if it wasn't new, and hadn't tape trimmingon it, and wasn't pink."She unbraided her two pigtails, combed out thewaves of her hair and tied them back with a ribbon,changed her shoes, and then slipped on thepretty frock, managing to fasten all but the threemiddle buttons, which she reserved for Emma Jane.   Then her eye fell on her cherished pink sunshade,the exact match, and the girls had never seen it.   It wasn't quite appropriate for school, but sheneedn't take it into the room; she would wrap itin a piece of paper, just show it, and carry it cominghome. She glanced in the parlor looking-glassdownstairs and was electrified at the vision. Itseemed almost as if beauty of apparel could go nofurther than that heavenly pink gingham dress!   The sparkle of her eyes, glow of her cheeks, sheenof her falling hair, passed unnoticed in the all-conquering charm of the rose-colored garment. Goodness!   it was twenty minutes to one and she wouldbe late. She danced out the side door, pulled a pinkrose from a bush at the gate, and covered the milebetween the brick house and the seat of learningin an incredibly short time, meeting Emma Jane,also breathless and resplendent, at the entrance.   "Rebecca Randall!" exclaimed Emma Jane,"you're handsome as a picture!""I?" laughed Rebecca "Nonsense! it's onlythe pink gingham.""You're not good looking every day," insistedEmma Jane; "but you're different somehow. Seemy garnet ring; mother scrubbed it in soap andwater. How on earth did your aunt Mirandy letyou put on your bran' new dress?""They were both away and I didn't ask,"Rebecca responded anxiously. "Why? Do you thinkthey'd have said no?""Miss Mirandy always says no, doesn't she?"asked Emma Jane.   "Ye--es; but this afternoon is very special--almost like a Sunday-school concert.""Yes," assented Emma Jane, "it is, of course;with your name on the board, and our pointing toyour flag, and our elergant dialogue, and all that."The afternoon was one succession of solidtriumphs for everybody concerned. There were noreal failures at all, no tears, no parents ashamedof their offspring. Miss Dearborn heard manyadmiring remarks passed upon her ability, andwondered whether they belonged to her or partly,at least, to Rebecca. The child had no more todo than several others, but she was somehow inthe foreground. It transpired afterwards at variousvillage entertainments that Rebecca couldn'tbe kept in the background; it positively refusedto hold her. Her worst enemy could not havecalled her pushing. She was ready and willingand never shy; but she sought for no chancesof display and was, indeed, remarkably lacking inself-consciousness, as well as eager to bring othersinto whatever fun or entertainment there was.   If wherever the MacGregor sat was the head ofthe table, so in the same way wherever Rebeccastood was the centre of the stage. Her clear hightreble soared above all the rest in the choruses,and somehow everybody watched her, took noteof her gestures, her whole-souled singing, herirrepressible enthusiasm.   Finally it was all over, and it seemed to Rebeccaas if she should never be cool and calm again, asshe loitered on the homeward path. There wouldbe no lessons to learn to-night, and the vision ofhelping with the preserves on the morrow had noterrors for her--fears could not draw breath inthe radiance that flooded her soul. There werethick gathering clouds in the sky, but she took nonote of them save to be glad that she could raiseher sunshade. She did not tread the solid groundat all, or have any sense of belonging to the commonhuman family, until she entered the side yardof the brick house and saw her aunt Mirandastanding in the open doorway. Then with a rushshe came back to earth. Chapter 9 Ashes Of Roses There she is, over an hour late; a littlemore an' she'd 'a' been caught in a thundershower, but she'd never look ahead,"said Miranda to Jane; "and added to all her otheriniquities, if she ain't rigged out in that new dress,steppin' along with her father's dancin'-school steps,and swingin' her parasol for all the world as if shewas play-actin'. Now I'm the oldest, Jane, an' Iintend to have my say out; if you don't like it youcan go into the kitchen till it's over. Step rightin here, Rebecca; I want to talk to you. What didyou put on that good new dress for, on a schoolday, without permission?""I had intended to ask you at noontime, but youweren't at home, so I couldn't," began Rebecca.   "You did no such a thing; you put it on becauseyou was left alone, though you knew well enoughI wouldn't have let you.""If I'd been CERTAIN you wouldn't have let meI'd never have done it," said Rebecca, trying tobe truthful; "but I wasn't CERTAIN, and it was worthrisking. I thought perhaps you might, if you knewit was almost a real exhibition at school.""Exhibition!" exclaimed Miranda scornfully;"you are exhibition enough by yourself, I shouldsay. Was you exhibitin' your parasol?""The parasol WAS silly," confessed Rebecca,hanging her head; "but it's the only time in mywhole life when I had anything to match it, andit looked so beautiful with the pink dress! EmmaJane and I spoke a dialogue about a city girl anda country girl, and it came to me just the minutebefore I started how nice it would come in for thecity girl; and it did. I haven't hurt my dress amite, aunt Mirandy.""It's the craftiness and underhandedness ofyour actions that's the worst," said Mirandacoldly. "And look at the other things you'vedone! It seems as if Satan possessed you! Youwent up the front stairs to your room, but youdidn't hide your tracks, for you dropped yourhandkerchief on the way up. You left the screenout of your bedroom window for the flies to comein all over the house. You never cleared awayyour lunch nor set away a dish, AND YOU LEFT THESIDE DOOR UNLOCKED from half past twelve to threeo'clock, so 't anybody could 'a' come in and stolenwhat they liked!"Rebecca sat down heavily in her chair as sheheard the list of her transgressions. How couldshe have been so careless? The tears began toflow now as she attempted to explain sins thatnever could be explained or justified.   "Oh, I'm so sorry!" she faltered. "I was trimmingthe schoolroom, and got belated, and ran allthe way home. It was hard getting into my dressalone, and I hadn't time to eat but a mouthful,and just at the last minute, when I honestly--HONESTLY--would have thought about clearing awayand locking up, I looked at the clock and knew Icould hardly get back to school in time to form inthe line; and I thought how dreadful it would beto go in late and get my first black mark on a Fridayafternoon, with the minister's wife and thedoctor's wife and the school committee all there!""Don't wail and carry on now; it's no goodcryin' over spilt milk," answered Miranda. "Anounce of good behavior is worth a pound of repentance.   Instead of tryin' to see how little troubleyou can make in a house that ain't your own home,it seems as if you tried to see how much you couldput us out. Take that rose out o' your dress andlet me see the spot it's made on your yoke, an' therusty holes where the wet pin went in. No, it ain't;but it's more by luck than forethought. I ain't gotany patience with your flowers and frizzled-out hairand furbelows an' airs an' graces, for all the worldlike your Miss-Nancy father."Rebecca lifted her head in a flash. "Look here,aunt Mirandy, I'll be as good as I know how to be.   I'll mind quick when I'm spoken to and neverleave the door unlocked again, but I won't havemy father called names. He was a p-perfectlyl-lovely father, that's what he was, and it's MEANto call him Miss Nancy!""Don't you dare answer me back that imperdentway, Rebecca, tellin' me I'm mean; your fatherwas a vain, foolish, shiftless man, an' you might aswell hear it from me as anybody else; he spentyour mother's money and left her with seven childrento provide for.""It's s-something to leave s-seven nicechildren," sobbed Rebecca.   "Not when other folks have to help feed, clothe,and educate 'em," responded Miranda. "Now youstep upstairs, put on your nightgown, go to bed,and stay there till to-morrow mornin'. You'll finda bowl o' crackers an' milk on your bureau, an' Idon't want to hear a sound from you till breakfasttime. Jane, run an' take the dish towels off theline and shut the shed doors; we're goin' to havea turrible shower.""We've had it, I should think," said Janequietly, as she went to do her sister's bidding.   "I don't often speak my mind, Mirandy; but youought not to have said what you did about Lorenzo.   He was what he was, and can't be madeany different; but he was Rebecca's father, andAurelia always says he was a good husband."Miranda had never heard the proverbial phraseabout the only "good Indian," but her mind workedin the conventional manner when she said grimly,"Yes, I've noticed that dead husbands are usuallygood ones; but the truth needs an airin' now andthen, and that child will never amount to a hill o'   beans till she gets some of her father trounced outof her. I'm glad I said just what I did.""I daresay you are," remarked Jane, with whatmight be described as one of her annual bursts ofcourage; "but all the same, Mirandy, it wasn'tgood manners, and it wasn't good religion!"The clap of thunder that shook the house just atthat moment made no such peal in Miranda Sawyer'sears as Jane's remark made when it fell witha deafening roar on her conscience.   Perhaps after all it is just as well to speak onlyonce a year and then speak to the purpose.   Rebecca mounted the back stairs wearily, closedthe door of her bedroom, and took off the belovedpink gingham with trembling fingers. Her cottonhandkerchief was rolled into a hard ball, and in theintervals of reaching the more difficult buttons thatlay between her shoulder blades and her belt, shedabbed her wet eyes carefully, so that they shouldnot rain salt water on the finery that had beenworn at such a price. She smoothed it out carefully,pinched up the white ruffle at the neck, andlaid it away in a drawer with an extra little sob atthe roughness of life. The withered pink rose fellon the floor. Rebecca looked at it and thought toherself, "Just like my happy day!" Nothing couldshow more clearly the kind of child she was thanthe fact that she instantly perceived the symbolismof the rose, and laid it in the drawer with the dressas if she were burying the whole episode with allits sad memories. It was a child's poetic instinctwith a dawning hint of woman's sentiment in it.   She braided her hair in the two accustomed pig-tails, took off her best shoes (which had happilyescaped notice), with all the while a fixed resolvegrowing in her mind, that of leaving the brickhouse and going back to the farm. She would notbe received there with open arms,--there was nohope of that,--but she would help her motherabout the house and send Hannah to Riverboro inher place. "I hope she'll like it!" she thought ina momentary burst of vindictiveness. She sat bythe window trying to make some sort of plan,watching the lightning play over the hilltop andthe streams of rain chasing each other down thelightning rod. And this was the day that haddawned so joyfully! It had been a red sunrise,and she had leaned on the window sill studyingher lesson and thinking what a lovely world itwas. And what a golden morning! The changingof the bare, ugly little schoolroom into a bower ofbeauty; Miss Dearborn's pleasure at her successwith the Simpson twins' recitation; the privilegeof decorating the blackboard; the happy thoughtof drawing Columbia from the cigar box; theintoxicating moment when the school clapped her!   And what an afternoon! How it went on fromglory to glory, beginning with Emma Jane's tellingher, Rebecca Randall, that she was as "handsomeas a picture."She lived through the exercises again inmemory, especially her dialogue with Emma Jane andher inspiration of using the bough-covered stoveas a mossy bank where the country girl could sitand watch her flocks. This gave Emma Jane a feelingof such ease that she never recited better;and how generous it was of her to lend the garnetring to the city girl, fancying truly how it wouldflash as she furled her parasol and approached theawe-stricken shepherdess! She had thought auntMiranda might be pleased that the niece inviteddown from the farm had succeeded so well atschool; but no, there was no hope of pleasing herin that or in any other way. She would go toMaplewood on the stage next day with Mr. Cobband get home somehow from cousin Ann's. Onsecond thoughts her aunts might not allow it.   Very well, she would slip away now and see if shecould stay all night with the Cobbs and be off nextmorning before breakfast.   Rebecca never stopped long to think, more 's thepity, so she put on her oldest dress and hat andjacket, then wrapped her nightdress, comb, andtoothbrush in a bundle and dropped it softly outof the window. Her room was in the L and herwindow at no very dangerous distance from theground, though had it been, nothing could havestopped her at that moment. Somebody who hadgone on the roof to clean out the gutters had lefta cleat nailed to the side of the house about halfwaybetween the window and the top of the backporch. Rebecca heard the sound of the sewingmachine in the dining-room and the chopping ofmeat in the kitchen; so knowing the whereaboutsof both her aunts, she scrambled out of the window,caught hold of the lightning rod, slid down to thehelpful cleat, jumped to the porch, used the woodbinetrellis for a ladder, and was flying up the roadin the storm before she had time to arrange anydetails of her future movements.   Jeremiah Cobb sat at his lonely supper at thetable by the kitchen window. "Mother," as hewith his old-fashioned habits was in the habit ofcalling his wife, was nursing a sick neighbor. Mrs.   Cobb was mother only to a little headstone in thechurchyard, where reposed "Sarah Ann, beloveddaughter of Jeremiah and Sarah Cobb, aged seventeenmonths;" but the name of mother was betterthan nothing, and served at any rate as a reminderof her woman's crown of blessedness.   The rain still fell, and the heavens were dark,though it was scarcely five o'clock. Looking upfrom his "dish of tea," the old man saw at theopen door a very figure of woe. Rebecca's facewas so swollen with tears and so sharp with miserythat for a moment he scarcely recognized her.   Then when he heard her voice asking, "Pleasemay I come in, Mr. Cobb?" he cried, "Well Ivow! It's my little lady passenger! Come to callon old uncle Jerry and pass the time o' day, hevye? Why, you're wet as sops. Draw up to thestove. I made a fire, hot as it was, thinkin' Iwanted somethin' warm for my supper, bein' kindo' lonesome without mother. She's settin' up withSeth Strout to-night. There, we'll hang yoursoppy hat on the nail, put your jacket over thechair rail, an' then you turn your back to the stovean' dry yourself good."Uncle Jerry had never before said so manywords at a time, but he had caught sight of thechild's red eyes and tear-stained cheeks, and hisbig heart went out to her in her trouble, quiteregardless of any circumstances that might havecaused it.   Rebecca stood still for a moment until uncleJerry took his seat again at the table, and then,unable to contain herself longer, cried, "Oh, Mr.   Cobb, I've run away from the brick house, and Iwant to go back to the farm. Will you keep meto-night and take me up to Maplewood in thestage? I haven't got any money for my fare, butI'll earn it somehow afterwards.""Well, I guess we won't quarrel 'bout money, youand me," said the old man; "and we've never hadour ride together, anyway, though we allers meantto go down river, not up.""I shall never see Milltown now!" sobbed Rebecca.   "Come over here side o' me an' tell me all aboutit," coaxed uncle Jerry. "Jest set down on thatthere wooden cricket an' out with the whole story."Rebecca leaned her aching head against Mr.   Cobb's homespun knee and recounted the historyof her trouble. Tragic as that history seemed toher passionate and undisciplined mind, she told ittruthfully and without exaggeration. Chapter 10 Rainbow Bridges Uncle Jerry coughed and stirred in hischair a good deal during Rebecca's recital,but he carefully concealed any unduefeeling of sympathy, just muttering, "Poor little soul!   We'll see what we can do for her!""You will take me to Maplewood, won't you, Mr.   Cobb?" begged Rebecca piteously.   "Don't you fret a mite," he answered, with acrafty little notion at the back of his mind; "I'llsee the lady passenger through somehow. Nowtake a bite o' somethin' to eat, child. Spread someo' that tomato preserve on your bread; draw up tothe table. How'd you like to set in mother's placean' pour me out another cup o' hot tea?"Mr. Jeremiah Cobb's mental machinery wassimple, and did not move very smoothly save whenpropelled by his affection or sympathy. In thepresent case these were both employed to hisadvantage, and mourning his stupidity and prayingfor some flash of inspiration to light his path, heblundered along, trusting to Providence.   Rebecca, comforted by the old man's tone, andtimidly enjoying the dignity of sitting in Mrs. Cobb'sseat and lifting the blue china teapot, smiled faintly,smoothed her hair, and dried her eyes.   "I suppose your mother'll be turrible glad tosee you back again?" queried Mr. Cobb.   A tiny fear--just a baby thing--in the bottomof Rebecca's heart stirred and grew larger the momentit was touched with a question.   "She won't like it that I ran away, I s'pose, andshe'll be sorry that I couldn't please aunt Mirandy;but I'll make her understand, just as I did you.""I s'pose she was thinkin' o' your schoolin',lettin' you come down here; but land! you can go toschool in Temperance, I s'pose?""There's only two months' school now inTemperance, and the farm 's too far from all the otherschools.""Oh well! there's other things in the worldbeside edjercation," responded uncle Jerry, attackinga piece of apple pie.   "Ye--es; though mother thought that was goingto be the making of me," returned Rebecca sadly,giving a dry little sob as she tried to drink her tea.   "It'll be nice for you to be all together againat the farm--such a house full o' children!"remarked the dear old deceiver, who longed fornothing so much as to cuddle and comfort the poorlittle creature.   "It's too full--that's the trouble. But I'llmake Hannah come to Riverboro in my place.""S'pose Mirandy 'n' Jane'll have her? I shouldbe 'most afraid they wouldn't. They'll be kind o'   mad at your goin' home, you know, and you can'thardly blame 'em."This was quite a new thought,--that the brickhouse might be closed to Hannah, since she, Rebecca,had turned her back upon its cold hospitality.   "How is this school down here in Riverboro--pretty good?" inquired uncle Jerry, whose brainwas working with an altogether unaccustomedrapidity,--so much so that it almost terrified him.   "Oh, it's a splendid school! And MissDearborn is a splendid teacher!""You like her, do you? Well, you'd better believeshe returns the compliment. Mother was down tothe store this afternoon buyin' liniment for SethStrout, an' she met Miss Dearborn on the bridge.   They got to talkin' 'bout school, for mother hassummer-boarded a lot o' the schoolmarms, an' likes'em. `How does the little Temperance girl gitalong?' asks mother. `Oh, she's the best scholarI have!' says Miss Dearborn. `I could teach schoolfrom sun-up to sun-down if scholars was all likeRebecca Randall,' says she.""Oh, Mr. Cobb, DID she say that?" glowedRebecca, her face sparkling and dimpling in an instant.   "I've tried hard all the time, but I'll study thecovers right off of the books now.""You mean you would if you'd ben goin' tostay here," interposed uncle Jerry. "Now ain't ittoo bad you've jest got to give it all up on accounto' your aunt Mirandy? Well, I can't hardly blameye. She's cranky an' she's sour; I should thinkshe'd ben nussed on bonny-clabber an' greenapples. She needs bearin' with; an' I guess youain't much on patience, be ye?""Not very much," replied Rebecca dolefully.   "If I'd had this talk with ye yesterday," pursuedMr. Cobb, "I believe I'd have advised ye different.   It's too late now, an' I don't feel to say you'veben all in the wrong; but if 't was to do over again,I'd say, well, your aunt Mirandy gives you clothesand board and schoolin' and is goin' to send youto Wareham at a big expense. She's turrible hardto get along with, an' kind o' heaves benefits atyour head, same 's she would bricks; but they'rebenefits jest the same, an' mebbe it's your job tokind o' pay for 'em in good behavior. Jane's aleetle bit more easy goin' than Mirandy, ain't she,or is she jest as hard to please?""Oh, aunt Jane and I get along splendidly,"exclaimed Rebecca; "she's just as good and kindas she can be, and I like her better all the time.   I think she kind of likes me, too; she smoothedmy hair once. I'd let her scold me all day long,for she understands; but she can't stand up for meagainst aunt Mirandy; she's about as afraid ofher as I am.""Jane'll be real sorry to-morrow to find you'vegone away, I guess; but never mind, it can't behelped. If she has a kind of a dull time with Mirandy,on account o' her bein' so sharp, why of courseshe'd set great store by your comp'ny. Mother wastalkin' with her after prayer meetin' the other night.   `You wouldn't know the brick house, Sarah,' saysJane. `I'm keepin' a sewin' school, an' my scholarhas made three dresses. What do you think o'   that,' says she, `for an old maid's child? I'vetaken a class in Sunday-school,' says Jane, `an'   think o' renewin' my youth an' goin' to the picnicwith Rebecca,' says she; an' mother declares shenever see her look so young 'n' happy."There was a silence that could be felt in the littlekitchen; a silence only broken by the ticking ofthe tall clock and the beating of Rebecca's heart,which, it seemed to her, almost drowned the voiceof the clock. The rain ceased, a sudden rosy lightfilled the room, and through the window a rainbowarch could be seen spanning the heavens likea radiant bridge. Bridges took one across difficultplaces, thought Rebecca, and uncle Jerry seemedto have built one over her troubles and given herstrength to walk.   "The shower 's over," said the old man, fillinghis pipe; "it's cleared the air, washed the face o'   the airth nice an' clean, an' everything to-morrerwill shine like a new pin--when you an' I aredrivin' up river."Rebecca pushed her cup away, rose from thetable, and put on her hat and jacket quietly. "I'mnot going to drive up river, Mr. Cobb," she said.   "I'm going to stay here and--catch bricks; catch'em without throwing 'em back, too. I don't knowas aunt Mirandy will take me in after I've runaway, but I'm going back now while I have thecourage. You wouldn't be so good as to go withme, would you, Mr. Cobb?""You'd better b'lieve your uncle Jerry don'tpropose to leave till he gits this thing fixed up,"cried the old man delightedly. "Now you've hadall you can stan' to-night, poor little soul, withoutgettin' a fit o' sickness; an' Mirandy'll be sorean' cross an' in no condition for argyment; so myplan is jest this: to drive you over to the brickhouse in my top buggy; to have you set back inthe corner, an' I git out an' go to the side door;an' when I git your aunt Mirandy 'n' aunt Janeout int' the shed to plan for a load o' wood I'mgoin' to have hauled there this week, you'll slipout o' the buggy and go upstairs to bed. The frontdoor won't be locked, will it?""Not this time of night," Rebecca answered;"not till aunt Mirandy goes to bed; but oh! whatif it should be?""Well, it won't; an' if 't is, why we'll have toface it out; though in my opinion there's thingsthat won't bear facin' out an' had better be settledcomfortable an' quiet. You see you ain't run awayyet; you've only come over here to consult me'bout runnin' away, an' we've concluded it ain'twuth the trouble. The only real sin you'vecommitted, as I figger it out, was in comin' here by thewinder when you'd ben sent to bed. That ain't sovery black, an' you can tell your aunt Jane 'boutit come Sunday, when she's chock full o' religion,an' she can advise you when you'd better tell youraunt Mirandy. I don't believe in deceivin' folks,but if you've hed hard thoughts you ain't obleegedto own 'em up; take 'em to the Lord in prayer, asthe hymn says, and then don't go on hevin' 'em.   Now come on; I'm all hitched up to go over tothe post-office; don't forget your bundle; `it'salways a journey, mother, when you carry a nightgown;'   them 's the first words your uncle Jerryever heard you say! He didn't think you'd bebringin' your nightgown over to his house. Stepin an' curl up in the corner; we ain't goin' to letfolks see little runaway gals, 'cause they're goin'   back to begin all over ag'in!"When Rebecca crept upstairs, and undressing inthe dark finally found herself in her bed that night,though she was aching and throbbing in everynerve, she felt a kind of peace stealing over her.   She had been saved from foolishness and error;kept from troubling her poor mother; preventedfrom angering and mortifying her aunts.   Her heart was melted now, and she determinedto win aunt Miranda's approval by some desperatemeans, and to try and forget the one thing thatrankled worst, the scornful mention of her father,of whom she thought with the greatest admiration,and whom she had not yet heard criticised; forsuch sorrows and disappointments as Aurelia Randallhad suffered had never been communicated toher children.   It would have been some comfort to the bruised,unhappy little spirit to know that Miranda Sawyerwas passing an uncomfortable night, and thatshe tacitly regretted her harshness, partly becauseJane had taken such a lofty and virtuous positionin the matter. She could not endure Jane's disapproval,although she would never have confessed tosuch a weakness.   As uncle Jerry drove homeward under the stars,well content with his attempts at keeping the peace,he thought wistfully of the touch of Rebecca's headon his knee, and the rain of her tears on his hand;of the sweet reasonableness of her mind when shehad the matter put rightly before her; of her quickdecision when she had once seen the path of duty;of the touching hunger for love and understandingthat were so characteristic in her. "LordA'mighty!" he ejaculated under his breath, "LordA'mighty! to hector and abuse a child like thatone! 'T ain't ABUSE exactly, I know, or 't wouldn'tbe to some o' your elephant-hided young ones; butto that little tender will-o'-the-wisp a hard word 'slike a lash. Mirandy Sawyer would be a heap betterwoman if she had a little gravestun to remember,same's mother 'n' I have.""I never see a child improve in her work asRebecca has to-day," remarked Miranda Sawyer toJane on Saturday evening. "That settin' down Igave her was probably just what she needed, andI daresay it'll last for a month.""I'm glad you're pleased," returned Jane. "Acringing worm is what you want, not a bright, smilingchild. Rebecca looks to me as if she'd beenthrough the Seven Years' War. When she camedownstairs this morning it seemed to me she'dgrown old in the night. If you follow my advice,which you seldom do, you'll let me take her andEmma Jane down beside the river to-morrow afternoonand bring Emma Jane home to a good Sundaysupper. Then if you'll let her go to Milltown withthe Cobbs on Wednesday, that'll hearten her upa little and coax back her appetite. Wednesday 's aholiday on account of Miss Dearborn's going hometo her sister's wedding, and the Cobbs and Perkinseswant to go down to the Agricultural Fair." Chapter 11 "The Stirring Of The Powers" Rebecca's visit to Milltown was all that herglowing fancy had painted it, except thatrecent readings about Rome and Venicedisposed her to believe that those cities mighthave an advantage over Milltown in the matterof mere pictorial beauty. So soon does the souloutgrow its mansions that after once seeingMilltown her fancy ran out to the future sight ofPortland; for that, having islands and a harborand two public monuments, must be far morebeautiful than Milltown, which would, she felt, takeits proud place among the cities of the earth, byreason of its tremendous business activity ratherthan by any irresistible appeal to the imagination.   It would be impossible for two children to seemore, do more, walk more, talk more, eat more, orask more questions than Rebecca and Emma Janedid on that eventful Wednesday.   "She's the best company I ever see in all mylife," said Mrs. Cobb to her husband that evening.   "We ain't had a dull minute this day. She's well-mannered, too; she didn't ask for anything, andwas thankful for whatever she got. Did you watchher face when we went into that tent where theywas actin' out Uncle Tom's Cabin? And did youtake notice of the way she told us about the bookwhen we sat down to have our ice cream? I tell youHarriet Beecher Stowe herself couldn't 'a' doneit better justice.""I took it all in," responded Mr. Cobb, who waspleased that "mother" agreed with him aboutRebecca. "I ain't sure but she's goin' to turn outsomethin' remarkable,--a singer, or a writer, or alady doctor like that Miss Parks up to Cornish.""Lady doctors are always home'paths, ain'tthey?" asked Mrs. Cobb, who, it is needless to say,was distinctly of the old school in medicine.   "Land, no, mother; there ain't no home'path'bout Miss Parks--she drives all over the country.""I can't see Rebecca as a lady doctor, somehow,"mused Mrs. Cobb. "Her gift o' gab is what'sgoin' to be the makin' of her; mebbe she'll lecture,or recite pieces, like that Portland elocutionist thatcome out here to the harvest supper.""I guess she'll be able to write down her ownpieces," said Mr. Cobb confidently; "she couldmake 'em up faster 'n she could read 'em out of abook.""It's a pity she's so plain looking," remarkedMrs. Cobb, blowing out the candle.   "PLAIN LOOKING, mother?" exclaimed her husbandin astonishment. "Look at the eyes of her;look at the hair of her, an' the smile, an' thatthere dimple! Look at Alice Robinson, that'scalled the prettiest child on the river, an' see howRebecca shines her ri' down out o' sight! I hopeMirandy'll favor her comin' over to see us realoften, for she'll let off some of her steam here, an'   the brick house'll be consid'able safer for everybodyconcerned. We've known what it was to hevchildren, even if 't was more 'n thirty years ago,an' we can make allowances."Notwithstanding the encomiums of Mr. and Mrs.   Cobb, Rebecca made a poor hand at compositionwriting at this time. Miss Dearborn gave herevery sort of subject that she had ever been givenherself: Cloud Pictures; Abraham Lincoln; Nature;Philanthropy; Slavery; Intemperance; Joyand Duty; Solitude; but with none of them didRebecca seem to grapple satisfactorily.   "Write as you talk, Rebecca," insisted poor MissDearborn, who secretly knew that she could nevermanage a good composition herself.   "But gracious me, Miss Dearborn! I don't talkabout nature and slavery. I can't write unless Ihave something to say, can I?""That is what compositions are for," returnedMiss Dearborn doubtfully; "to make you havethings to say. Now in your last one, on solitude, youhaven't said anything very interesting, and you'vemade it too common and every-day to sound well.   There are too many `yous' and `yours' in it; youought to say `one' now and then, to make it seemmore like good writing. `One opens a favoritebook;' `One's thoughts are a great comfort insolitude,' and so on.""I don't know any more about solitude this weekthan I did about joy and duty last week," grumbledRebecca.   "You tried to be funny about joy and duty,"said Miss Dearborn reprovingly; "so of course youdidn't succeed.""I didn't know you were going to make us readthe things out loud," said Rebecca with an embarrassedsmile of recollection.   "Joy and Duty" had been the inspiring subjectgiven to the older children for a theme to be writtenin five minutes.   Rebecca had wrestled, struggled, perspired invain. When her turn came to read she was obligedto confess she had written nothing.   "You have at least two lines, Rebecca," insistedthe teacher, "for I see them on your slate.""I'd rather not read them, please; they are notgood," pleaded Rebecca.   "Read what you have, good or bad, little ormuch; I am excusing nobody."Rebecca rose, overcome with secret laughterdread, and mortification; then in a low voice sheread the couplet:--When Joy and Duty clashLet Duty go to smash.   Dick Carter's head disappeared under the desk,while Living Perkins choked with laughter.   Miss Dearborn laughed too; she was little morethan a girl, and the training of the young idea seldomappealed to the sense of humor.   "You must stay after school and try again,Rebecca," she said, but she said it smilingly. "Yourpoetry hasn't a very nice idea in it for a good littlegirl who ought to love duty.""It wasn't MY idea," said Rebecca apologetically.   "I had only made the first line when I saw you weregoing to ring the bell and say the time was up. Ihad `clash' written, and I couldn't think of anythingthen but `hash' or `rash' or `smash.' I'llchange it to this:--When Joy and Duty clash,'T is Joy must go to smash.""That is better," Miss Dearborn answered,"though I cannot think `going to smash' is a prettyexpression for poetry."Having been instructed in the use of the indefinitepronoun "one" as giving a refined and elegant touchto literary efforts, Rebecca painstakingly rewroteher composition on solitude, giving it all the benefitof Miss Dearborn's suggestion. It then appeared inthe following form, which hardly satisfied eitherteacher or pupil:--SOLITUDEIt would be false to say that one could ever bealone when one has one's lovely thoughts to comfortone. One sits by one's self, it is true, but one thinks;one opens one's favorite book and reads one's favoritestory; one speaks to one's aunt or one's brother,fondles one's cat, or looks at one's photograph album.   There is one's work also: what a joy it is to one, ifone happens to like work. All one's little householdtasks keep one from being lonely. Does one everfeel bereft when one picks up one's chips to lightone's fire for one's evening meal? Or when onewashes one's milk pail before milking one's cow?   One would fancy not.   R. R. R.   "It is perfectly dreadful," sighed Rebecca whenshe read it aloud after school. "Putting in `one' allthe time doesn't make it sound any more like abook, and it looks silly besides.""You say such queer things," objected MissDearborn. "I don't see what makes you do it.   Why did you put in anything so common as pickingup chips?""Because I was talking about `household tasks'   in the sentence before, and it IS one of my householdtasks. Don't you think calling supper `one's evening meal'   is pretty? and isn't `bereft' a nice word?""Yes, that part of it does very well. It is the cat,the chips, and the milk pail that I don't like.""All right!" sighed Rebecca. "Out they go;Does the cow go too?""Yes, I don't like a cow in a composition," saidthe difficult Miss Dearborn.   The Milltown trip had not been without its tragicconsequences of a small sort; for the next weekMinnie Smellie's mother told Miranda Sawyer thatshe'd better look after Rebecca, for she was givento "swearing and profane language;" that she hadbeen heard saying something dreadful that veryafternoon, saying it before Emma Jane and LivingPerkins, who only laughed and got down on allfours and chased her.   Rebecca, on being confronted and charged withthe crime, denied it indignantly, and aunt Janebelieved her.   "Search your memory, Rebecca, and try to thinkwhat Minnie overheard you say," she pleaded.   "Don't be ugly and obstinate, but think real hard.   When did they chase you up the road, and whatwere you doing?"A sudden light broke upon Rebecca's darkness.   "Oh! I see it now," she exclaimed. "It hadrained hard all the morning, you know, and theroad was full of puddles. Emma Jane, Living, andI were walking along, and I was ahead. I saw thewater streaming over the road towards the ditch, andit reminded me of Uncle Tom's Cabin at Milltown,when Eliza took her baby and ran across the Mississippion the ice blocks, pursued by the bloodhounds.   We couldn't keep from laughing after we came outof the tent because they were acting on such a smallplatform that Eliza had to run round and round, andpart of the time the one dog they had pursued her,and part of the time she had to pursue the dog. Iknew Living would remember, too, so I took off mywaterproof and wrapped it round my books for ababy; then I shouted, `MY GOD! THE RIVER!' justlike that--the same as Eliza did in the play; thenI leaped from puddle to puddle, and Living andEmma Jane pursued me like the bloodhounds. It'sjust like that stupid Minnie Smellie who doesn'tknow a game when she sees one. And Eliza wasn'tswearing when she said `My God! the river!' Itwas more like praying.""Well, you've got no call to be prayin', any morethan swearin', in the middle of the road," saidMiranda; "but I'm thankful it's no worse. You'reborn to trouble as the sparks fly upward, an' I'mafraid you allers will be till you learn to bridle yourunruly tongue.""I wish sometimes that I could bridle Minnie's,"murmured Rebecca, as she went to set the table forsupper.   "I declare she IS the beatin'est child!" saidMiranda, taking off her spectacles and laying downher mending. "You don't think she's a leetle mitecrazy, do you, Jane?""I don't think she's like the rest of us,"responded Jane thoughtfully and with some anxietyin her pleasant face; "but whether it's for thebetter or the worse I can't hardly tell till she growsup. She's got the making of 'most anything in her,Rebecca has; but I feel sometimes as if we werenot fitted to cope with her.""Stuff an' nonsense!" said Miranda "Speakfor yourself. I feel fitted to cope with any childthat ever was born int' the world!""I know you do, Mirandy; but that don't MAKEyou so," returned Jane with a smile.   The habit of speaking her mind freely wascertainly growing on Jane to an altogether terrifyingextent. Chapter 12 "See The Pale Martyr" It was about this time that Rebecca, who had beenreading about the Spartan boy, conceived theidea of some mild form of self-punishment tobe applied on occasions when she was fully convincedin her own mind that it would be salutary.   The immediate cause of the decision was a somewhatsadder accident than was common, even in acareer prolific in such things.   Clad in her best, Rebecca had gone to take teawith the Cobbs; but while crossing the bridge shewas suddenly overcome by the beauty of the riverand leaned over the newly painted rail to feast hereyes on the dashing torrent of the fall. Resting herelbows on the topmost board, and inclining her littlefigure forward in delicious ease, she stood theredreaming.   The river above the dam was a glassy lake withall the loveliness of blue heaven and green shorereflected in its surface; the fall was a swirling wonderof water, ever pouring itself over and over inexhaustiblyin luminous golden gushes that lost themselvesin snowy depths of foam. Sparkling in the sunshine,gleaming under the summer moon, cold and graybeneath a November sky, trickling over the damin some burning July drought, swollen with turbulentpower in some April freshet, how many youngeyes gazed into the mystery and majesty of thefalls along that river, and how many young heartsdreamed out their futures leaning over the bridgerail, seeing "the vision splendid" reflected there andoften, too, watching it fade into "the light ofcommon day."Rebecca never went across the bridge withoutbending over the rail to wonder and to ponder, andat this special moment she was putting the finishingtouches on a poem.   Two maidens by a river strayedDown in the state of Maine.   The one was called Rebecca,The other Emma Jane.   "I would my life were like the stream,"Said her named Emma Jane,"So quiet and so very smooth,So free from every pain.""I'd rather be a little dropIn the great rushing fall!   I would not choose the glassy lake,'T would not suit me at all!"(It was the darker maiden spokeThe words I just have stated,The maidens twain were simply friendsAnd not at all related.)But O! alas I we may not haveThe things we hope to gain;The quiet life may come to me,The rush to Emma Jane!   "I don't like `the rush to Emma Jane,' and Ican't think of anything else. Oh! what a smell ofpaint! Oh! it is ON me! Oh! it's all over my bestdress! Oh I what WILL aunt Miranda say!"With tears of self-reproach streaming from hereyes, Rebecca flew up the hill, sure of sympathy,and hoping against hope for help of some sort.   Mrs. Cobb took in the situation at a glance, andprofessed herself able to remove almost any stainfrom almost any fabric; and in this she wascorroborated by uncle Jerry, who vowed that mothercould git anything out. Sometimes she took thecloth right along with the spot, but she had a surehand, mother had!   The damaged garment was removed and partiallyimmersed in turpentine, while Rebecca graced thefestal board clad in a blue calico wrapper of Mrs.   Cobb's.   "Don't let it take your appetite away," croonedMrs. Cobb. "I've got cream biscuit and honey foryou. If the turpentine don't work, I'll try Frenchchalk, magneshy, and warm suds. If they fail, fathershall run over to Strout's and borry some of thestuff Marthy got in Milltown to take the currant pieout of her weddin' dress.""I ain't got to understandin' this paintin' accidentyet," said uncle Jerry jocosely, as he handedRebecca the honey. "Bein' as how there's `FreshPaint' signs hung all over the breedge, so 't a blindasylum couldn't miss 'em, I can't hardly accountfor your gettin' int' the pesky stuff.""I didn't notice the signs," Rebecca saiddolefully. "I suppose I was looking at the falls.""The falls has been there sence the beginnin'   o' time, an' I cal'late they'll be there till the endon 't; so you needn't 'a' been in sech a brash to gita sight of 'em. Children comes turrible high, mother,but I s'pose we must have 'em!" he said, winkingat Mrs. Cobb.   When supper was cleared away Rebecca insistedon washing and wiping the dishes, while Mrs. Cobbworked on the dress with an energy that plainlyshowed the gravity of the task. Rebecca kept leavingher post at the sink to bend anxiously overthe basin and watch her progress, while uncle Jerryoffered advice from time to time.   "You must 'a' laid all over the breedge, deary,"said Mrs. Cobb; "for the paint 's not only on yourelbows and yoke and waist, but it about coversyour front breadth."As the garment began to look a little betterRebecca's spirits took an upward turn, and at lengthshe left it to dry in the fresh air, and went into thesitting-room.   "Have you a piece of paper, please?" askedRebecca. "I'll copy out the poetry I was makingwhile I was lying in the paint."Mrs. Cobb sat by her mending basket, and uncleJerry took down a gingham bag of strings and occupiedhimself in taking the snarls out of them,--afavorite evening amusement with him.   Rebecca soon had the lines copied in her roundschoolgirl hand, making such improvements asoccurred to her on sober second thought.   THE TWO WISHESBYREBECCA RANDALLTwo maidens by a river strayed,'T was in the state of Maine.   Rebecca was the darker one,The fairer, Emma Jane.   The fairer maiden said, "I wouldMy life were as the stream;So peaceful, and so smooth and still,So pleasant and serene.""I'd rather be a little dropIn the great rushing fall;I'd never choose the quiet lake;'T would not please me at all."(It was the darker maiden spokeThe words we just have stated;The maidens twain were simply friends,Not sisters, or related.)But O! alas! we may not haveThe things we hope to gain.   The quiet life may come to me,The rush to Emma Jane!   She read it aloud, and the Cobbs thought it not onlysurpassingly beautiful, but a marvelous production"I guess if that writer that lived on CongressStreet in Portland could 'a' heard your poetry he'd'a' been astonished," said Mrs. Cobb. "If you askme, I say this piece is as good as that one o' his,`Tell me not in mournful numbers;' and consid'ableclearer.""I never could fairly make out what `mournfulnumbers' was," remarked Mr. Cobb critically.   "Then I guess you never studied fractions!"flashed Rebecca. "See here, uncle Jerry and auntSarah, would you write another verse, especially fora last one, as they usually do--one with `thoughts'   in it--to make a better ending?""If you can grind 'em out jest by turnin' thecrank, why I should say the more the merrier; butI don't hardly see how you could have a betterendin'," observed Mr. Cobb.   "It is horrid!" grumbled Rebecca. "I ought notto have put that `me' in. I'm writing the poetry.   Nobody ought to know it IS me standing by theriver; it ought to be `Rebecca,' or `the darkermaiden;' and `the rush to Emma Jane' is simplydreadful. Sometimes I think I never will try poetry,it's so hard to make it come right; and other timesit just says itself. I wonder if this would be better?   But O! alas! we may not gainThe good for which we prayThe quiet life may come to oneWho likes it rather gay,I don't know whether that is worse or not. Now fora new last verse!"In a few minutes the poetess looked up, flushedand triumphant. "It was as easy as nothing. Justhear!" And she read slowly, with her pretty,pathetic voice:--Then if our lot be bright or sad,Be full of smiles, or tears,The thought that God has planned it soShould help us bear the years.   Mr. and Mrs. Cobb exchanged dumb glances ofadmiration; indeed uncle Jerry was obliged to turnhis face to the window and wipe his eyes furtivelywith the string-bag.   "How in the world did you do it?" Mrs. Cobbexclaimed.   "Oh, it's easy," answered Rebecca; "the hymnsat meeting are all like that. You see there's aschool newspaper printed at Wareham Academyonce a month. Dick Carter says the editor is alwaysa boy, of course; but he allows girls to try and writefor it, and then chooses the best. Dick thinks I canbe in it.""IN it!" exclaimed uncle Jerry. "I shouldn'tbe a bit surprised if you had to write the wholepaper; an' as for any boy editor, you could lickhim writin', I bate ye, with one hand tied behind ye.""Can we have a copy of the poetry to keep inthe family Bible?" inquired Mrs. Cobb respectfully.   "Oh! would you like it?" asked Rebecca. "Yesindeed! I'll do a clean, nice one with violet inkand a fine pen. But I must go and look at my poordress."The old couple followed Rebecca into the kitchen.   The frock was quite dry, and in truth it had beenhelped a little by aunt Sarah's ministrations; butthe colors had run in the rubbing, the pattern wasblurred, and there were muddy streaks here andthere. As a last resort, it was carefully smoothedwith a warm iron, and Rebecca was urged to attireherself, that they might see if the spots showed asmuch when it was on.   They did, most uncompromisingly, and to thedullest eye. Rebecca gave one searching look, andthen said, as she took her hat from a nail in theentry, "I think I'll be going. Good-night! If I'vegot to have a scolding, I want it quick, and get itover.""Poor little onlucky misfortunate thing!" sigheduncle Jerry, as his eyes followed her down the hill.   "I wish she could pay some attention to the groundunder her feet; but I vow, if she was ourn I'd lether slop paint all over the house before I couldscold her. Here's her poetry she's left behind.   Read it out ag'in, mother. Land!" he continued,chuckling, as he lighted his cob pipe; "I can justsee the last flap o' that boy-editor's shirt tail as helegs it for the woods, while Rebecky settles down inhis revolvin' cheer! I'm puzzled as to what kind ofa job editin' is, exactly; but she'll find out, Rebeckywill. An' she'll just edit for all she's worth!   "`The thought that God has planned it soShould help us bear the years.'   Land, mother! that takes right holt, kind o' likethe gospel. How do you suppose she thought that out?""She couldn't have thought it out at her age,"said Mrs. Cobb; "she must have just guessed itwas that way. We know some things without bein'   told, Jeremiah."Rebecca took her scolding (which she richlydeserved) like a soldier. There was considerable of it,and Miss Miranda remarked, among other things,that so absent-minded a child was sure to grow upinto a driveling idiot. She was bidden to stay awayfrom Alice Robinson's birthday party, and doomed towear her dress, stained and streaked as it was, untilit was worn out. Aunt Jane six months later mitigatedthis martyrdom by making her a ruffled dimitypinafore, artfully shaped to conceal all the spots.   She was blessedly ready with these mediationsbetween the poor little sinner and the full consequencesof her sin.   When Rebecca had heard her sentence and goneto the north chamber she began to think. If therewas anything she did not wish to grow into, it wasan idiot of any sort, particularly a driveling one;and she resolved to punish herself every time sheincurred what she considered to be the righteousdispleasure of her virtuous relative. She didn'tmind staying away from Alice Robinson's. Shehad told Emma Jane it would be like a picnic ina graveyard, the Robinson house being as near anapproach to a tomb as a house can manage to be.   Children were commonly brought in at the backdoor, and requested to stand on newspapers whilemaking their call, so that Alice was begged by herfriends to "receive" in the shed or barn wheneverpossible. Mrs. Robinson was not only "turribleneat," but "turrible close," so that the refreshmentswere likely to be peppermint lozenges and glassesof well water.   After considering the relative values, as penances,of a piece of haircloth worn next the skin, and apebble in the shoe, she dismissed them both. Thehaircloth could not be found, and the pebble wouldattract the notice of the Argus-eyed aunt, besidesbeing a foolish bar to the activity of a person whohad to do housework and walk a mile and a half toschool.   Her first experimental attempt at martyrdom hadnot been a distinguished success. She had stayedat home from the Sunday-school concert, a func-tion of which, in ignorance of more alluring ones,she was extremely fond. As a result of her desertion,two infants who relied upon her to promptthem (she knew the verses of all the children betterthan they did themselves) broke down ignominiously.   The class to which she belonged had to reada difficult chapter of Scripture in rotation, and thevarious members spent an arduous Sabbath afternooncounting out verses according to their seatsin the pew, and practicing the ones that wouldinevitably fall to them. They were too ignorant torealize, when they were called upon, that Rebecca'sabsence would make everything come wrong, andthe blow descended with crushing force when theJebusites and Amorites, the Girgashites, Hivites,and Perizzites had to be pronounced by the personsof all others least capable of grappling with them.   Self-punishment, then, to be adequate and proper,must begin, like charity, at home, and unlike charityshould end there too. Rebecca looked about theroom vaguely as she sat by the window. She mustgive up something, and truth to tell she possessedlittle to give, hardly anything but--yes, that woulddo, the beloved pink parasol. She could not hide itin the attic, for in some moment of weakness shewould be sure to take it out again. She feared shehad not the moral energy to break it into bits. Hereyes moved from the parasol to the apple-trees inthe side yard, and then fell to the well curb. Thatwould do; she would fling her dearest possession intothe depths of the water. Action followed quicklyupon decision, as usual. She slipped down in thedarkness, stole out the front door, approached theplace of sacrifice, lifted the cover of the well, gave oneunresigned shudder, and flung the parasol downwardwith all her force. At the crucial instant ofrenunciation she was greatly helped by the reflection thatshe closely resembled the heathen mothers who casttheir babes to the crocodiles in the Ganges.   She slept well and arose refreshed, as aconsecrated spirit always should and sometimes does.   But there was great difficulty in drawing water afterbreakfast. Rebecca, chastened and uplifted, hadgone to school. Abijah Flagg was summoned, liftedthe well cover, explored, found the inciting cause oftrouble, and with the help of Yankee wit succeededin removing it. The fact was that the ivory hook ofthe parasol had caught in the chain gear, and whenthe first attempt at drawing water was made, thelittle offering of a contrite heart was jerked up, bent,its strong ribs jammed into the well side, andentangled with a twig root. It is needless to say thatno sleight-of-hand performer, however expert, unlessaided by the powers of darkness, could have accomplishedthis feat; but a luckless child in the pursuitof virtue had done it with a turn of the wrist.   We will draw a veil over the scene that occurredafter Rebecca's return from school. You who readmay be well advanced in years, you may be gifted inrhetoric, ingenious in argument; but even you mightquail at the thought of explaining the tortuous mentalprocesses that led you into throwing your belovedpink parasol into Miranda Sawyer's well. Perhapsyou feel equal to discussing the efficacy of spiritualself-chastisement with a person who closes her lipsinto a thin line and looks at you out of blank,uncomprehending eyes! Common sense, right, and logicwere all arrayed on Miranda's side. When poor Rebecca,driven to the wall, had to avow the reasonslying behind the sacrifice of the sunshade, her auntsaid, "Now see here, Rebecca, you're too big to bewhipped, and I shall never whip you; but when youthink you ain't punished enough, just tell me, andI'll make out to invent a little something more. Iain't so smart as some folks, but I can do that much;and whatever it is, it'll be something that won'tpunish the whole family, and make 'em drink ivorydust, wood chips, and pink silk rags with theirwater." Chapter 13 Snow-White; Rose-Red Just before Thanksgiving the affairs of theSimpsons reached what might have been calleda crisis, even in their family, which had beenborn and reared in a state of adventurous poverty andperilous uncertainty.   Riverboro was doing its best to return the entiretribe of Simpsons to the land of its fathers, so tospeak, thinking rightly that the town which hadgiven them birth, rather than the town of theiradoption, should feed them and keep a roof over theirheads until the children were of an age for self-support. There was little to eat in the household andless to wear, though Mrs. Simpson did, as always,her poor best. The children managed to satisfy theirappetites by sitting modestly outside their neighbors'   kitchen doors when meals were about to beserved. They were not exactly popular favorites, butthey did receive certain undesirable morsels from themore charitable housewives.   Life was rather dull and dreary, however, and inthe chill and gloom of November weather, with thevision of other people's turkeys bursting with fat,and other people's golden pumpkins and squashesand corn being garnered into barns, the youngSimpsons groped about for some inexpensive formof excitement, and settled upon the selling of soapfor a premium. They had sold enough to theirimmediate neighbors during the earlier autumn tosecure a child's handcart, which, though very weakon its pins, could be trundled over the country roads.   With large business sagacity and an executive capacitywhich must have been inherited from their father,they now proposed to extend their operationsto a larger area and distribute soap to contiguousvillages, if these villages could be induced to buy. TheExcelsior Soap Company paid a very small return ofany kind to its infantile agents, who were scatteredthrough the state, but it inflamed their imaginationsby the issue of circulars with highly colored picturesof the premiums to be awarded for the sale of a certainnumber of cakes. It was at this juncture thatClara Belle and Susan Simpson consulted Rebecca,who threw herself solidly and wholeheartedly into theenterprise, promising her help and that of EmmaJane Perkins. The premiums within their possiblegrasp were three: a bookcase, a plush reclining chair,and a banquet lamp. Of course the Simpsons hadno books, and casting aside, without thought or pang,the plush chair, which might have been of someuse in a family of seven persons (not counting Mr.   Simpson, who ordinarily sat elsewhere at the town'sexpense), they warmed themselves rapturously inthe vision of the banquet lamp, which speedily be-came to them more desirable than food, drink, orclothing. Neither Emma Jane nor Rebecca perceivedanything incongruous in the idea of theSimpsons striving for a banquet lamp. They lookedat the picture daily and knew that if they themselveswere free agents they would toil, suffer, ay sweat,for the happy privilege of occupying the same roomwith that lamp through the coming winter evenings.   It looked to be about eight feet tall in the catalogue,and Emma Jane advised Clara Belle to measure theheight of the Simpson ceilings; but a note in themargin of the circular informed them that it stoodtwo and a half feet high when set up in all its dignityand splendor on a proper table, three dollars extra.   It was only of polished brass, continued the circular,though it was invariably mistaken for solid gold, andthe shade that accompanied it (at least it accompaniedit if the agent sold a hundred extra cakes)was of crinkled crepe paper printed in a dozendelicious hues, from which the joy-dazzled agent mighttake his choice.   Seesaw Simpson was not in the syndicate. ClaraBelle was rather a successful agent, but Susan, whocould only say "thoap," never made large returns,and the twins, who were somewhat young to be thoroughlytrustworthy, could be given only a half dozencakes at a time, and were obliged to carry with themon their business trips a brief document stating theprice per cake, dozen, and box. Rebecca and EmmaJane offered to go two or three miles in some onedirection and see what they could do in the way ofstirring up a popular demand for the Snow-White andRose-Red brands, the former being devoted to laundrypurposes and the latter being intended for the toilet.   There was a great amount of hilarity in thepreparation for this event, and a long council in EmmaJane's attic. They had the soap company's circularfrom which to arrange a proper speech, and theyhad, what was still better, the remembrance of acertain patent-medicine vender's discourse at theMilltown Fair. His method, when once observed,could never be forgotten; nor his manner, nor hisvocabulary. Emma Jane practiced it on Rebecca,and Rebecca on Emma Jane.   "Can I sell you a little soap this afternoon? Itis called the Snow-White and Rose-Red Soap, sixcakes in an ornamental box, only twenty cents forthe white, twenty-five cents for the red. It is madefrom the purest ingredients, and if desired could beeaten by an invalid with relish and profit.""Oh, Rebecca, don't let's say that!" interposedEmma Jane hysterically. "It makes me feel like afool.""It takes so little to make you feel like a fool,Emma Jane," rebuked Rebecca, "that sometimes Ithink that you must BE one I don't get to feelinglike a fool so awfully easy; now leave out that eatingpart if you don't like it, and go on.""The Snow-White is probably the most remarkablelaundry soap ever manufactured. Immerse thegarments in a tub, lightly rubbing the more soiledportions with the soap; leave them submerged inwater from sunset to sunrise, and then the youngestbaby can wash them without the slightest effort.""BABE, not baby," corrected Rebecca from the circular.   "It's just the same thing," argued Emma Jane.   "Of course it's just the same THING; but a babyhas got to be called babe or infant in a circular,the same as it is in poetry! Would you rather say infant?""No," grumbled Emma Jane; "infant is worseeven than babe. Rebecca, do you think we'd betterdo as the circular says, and let Elijah or Elisha trythe soap before we begin selling?""I can't imagine a babe doing a family wash withANY soap," answered Rebecca; "but it must be trueor they would never dare to print it, so don't let'sbother. Oh! won't it be the greatest fun, EmmaJane? At some of the houses--where they can'tpossibly know me--I shan't be frightened, and Ishall reel off the whole rigmarole, invalid, babe, andall. Perhaps I shall say even the last sentence, if Ican remember it: `We sound every chord in thegreat mac-ro-cosm of satisfaction."This conversation took place on a Friday afternoonat Emma Jane's house, where Rebecca, to herunbounded joy, was to stay over Sunday, her auntshaving gone to Portland to the funeral of an oldfriend. Saturday being a holiday, they were goingto have the old white horse, drive to North Riverborothree miles away, eat a twelve o'clock dinnerwith Emma Jane's cousins, and be back at fouro'clock punctually.   When the children asked Mrs. Perkins if theycould call at just a few houses coming and going,and sell a little soap for the Simpsons, she at firstreplied decidedly in the negative. She was anindulgent parent, however, and really had littleobjection to Emma Jane amusing herself in this unusualway; it was only for Rebecca, as the niece of thedifficult Miranda Sawyer, that she raised scruples;but when fully persuaded that the enterprise was acharitable one, she acquiesced.   The girls called at Mr. Watson's store, andarranged for several large boxes of soap to be chargedto Clara Belle Simpson's account. These werelifted into the back of the wagon, and a happiercouple never drove along the country road thanRebecca and her companion. It was a gloriousIndian summer day, which suggested nothing ofThanksgiving, near at hand as it was. It was arustly day, a scarlet and buff, yellow and carmine,bronze and crimson day. There were still manyleaves on the oaks and maples, making a goodlyshow of red and brown and gold. The air was likesparkling cider, and every field had its heaps ofyellow and russet good things to eat, all ready for thebarns, the mills, and the markets. The horse forgothis twenty years, sniffed the sweet bright air, andtrotted like a colt; Nokomis Mountain looked blueand clear in the distance; Rebecca stood in thewagon, and apostrophized the landscape with suddenjoy of living:--"Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,With the wonderful water round you curled,And the wonderful grass upon your breast,World, you are beautifully drest!"Dull Emma Jane had never seemed to Rebeccaso near, so dear, so tried and true; and Rebecca,to Emma Jane's faithful heart, had never been sobrilliant, so bewildering, so fascinating, as in thisvisit together, with its intimacy, its freedom, andthe added delights of an exciting business enterprise.   A gorgeous leaf blew into the wagon.   "Does color make you sort of dizzy?" asked Rebecca.   "No," answered Emma Jane after a long pause;"no, it don't; not a mite.""Perhaps dizzy isn't just the right word, but it'snearest. I'd like to eat color, and drink it, andsleep in it. If you could be a tree, which onewould you choose?"Emma Jane had enjoyed considerable experienceof this kind, and Rebecca had succeeded in unstoppingher ears, ungluing her eyes, and loosening hertongue, so that she could "play the game" aftera fashion.   "I'd rather be an apple-tree in blossom,--thatone that blooms pink, by our pig-pen."Rebecca laughed. There was always somethingunexpected in Emma Jane's replies. "I'd chooseto be that scarlet maple just on the edge of thepond there,"--and she pointed with the whip.   "Then I could see so much more than your pinkapple-tree by the pig-pen. I could look at all therest of the woods, see my scarlet dress in my beautifullooking-glass, and watch all the yellow and browntrees growing upside down in the water. WhenI'm old enough to earn money, I'm going to havea dress like this leaf, all ruby color--thin, youknow, with a sweeping train and ruffly, curly edges;then I think I'll have a brown sash like the trunkof the tree, and where could I be green? Do theyhave green petticoats, I wonder? I'd like a greenpetticoat coming out now and then underneath toshow what my leaves were like before I was a scarlet maple.""I think it would be awful homely," said EmmaJane. "I'm going to have a white satin with a pinksash, pink stockings, bronze slippers, and a spangledfan." Chapter 14 Mr-Aladdin A single hour's experience of the vicissitudesincident to a business career cloudedthe children's spirits just the least bit.   They did not accompany each other to the doorsof their chosen victims, feeling sure that togetherthey could not approach the subject seriously;but they parted at the gate of each house, theone holding the horse while the other took thesoap samples and interviewed any one who seemedof a coming-on disposition. Emma Jane had disposedof three single cakes, Rebecca of three smallboxes; for a difference in their ability to persuadethe public was clearly defined at the start, thoughneither of them ascribed either success or defeat toanything but the imperious force of circumstances.   Housewives looked at Emma Jane and desired nosoap; listened to her description of its merits, andstill desired none. Other stars in their coursesgoverned Rebecca's doings. The people whom sheinterviewed either remembered their present needof soap, or reminded themselves that they wouldneed it in the future; the notable point in the casebeing that lucky Rebecca accomplished, with almostno effort, results that poor little Emma Jane failedto attain by hard and conscientious labor.   "It's your turn, Rebecca, and I'm glad, too,"said Emma Jane, drawing up to a gateway andindicating a house that was set a considerabledistance from the road. "I haven't got overtrembling from the last place yet." (A lady had put herhead out of an upstairs window and called, "Goaway, little girl; whatever you have in your box wedon't want any.") "I don't know who lives here,and the blinds are all shut in front. If there'snobody at home you mustn't count it, but take thenext house as yours."Rebecca walked up the lane and went to theside door. There was a porch there, and seated ina rocking-chair, husking corn, was a good-lookingyoung man, or was he middle aged? Rebeccacould not make up her mind. At all events he hadan air of the city about him,--well-shaven face,well-trimmed mustache, well-fitting clothes.   Rebecca was a trifle shy at this unexpected encounter,but there was nothing to be done but explain herpresence, so she asked, "Is the lady of the houseat home?""I am the lady of the house at present," saidthe stranger, with a whimsical smile. "What can Ido for you?""Have you ever heard of the--would you like, orI mean--do you need any soap?" queried Rebecca"Do I look as if I did?" he respondedunexpectedly.   Rebecca dimpled. "I didn't mean THAT; I havesome soap to sell; I mean I would like to introduceto you a very remarkable soap, the best nowon the market. It is called the"--"Oh! I must know that soap," said the gentlemangenially. "Made out of pure vegetable fats,isn't it?""The very purest," corroborated Rebecca.   "No acid in it?""Not a trace.""And yet a child could do the Monday washingwith it and use no force.""A babe," corrected Rebecca"Oh! a babe, eh? That child grows youngerevery year, instead of older--wise child!"This was great good fortune, to find a customerwho knew all the virtues of the article in advance.   Rebecca dimpled more and more, and at her newfriend's invitation sat down on a stool at his sidenear the edge of the porch. The beauties of theornamental box which held the Rose-Red weredisclosed, and the prices of both that and the Snow-White were unfolded. Presently she forgot allabout her silent partner at the gate and was talkingas if she had known this grand personage all herlife.   "I'm keeping house to-day, but I don't live here,"explained the delightful gentleman. "I'm just ona visit to my aunt, who has gone to Portland.   I used to be here as a boy. and I am very fond ofthe spot.""I don't think anything takes the place of thefarm where one lived when one was a child,"observed Rebecca, nearly bursting with pride at havingat last successfully used the indefinite pronoun ingeneral conversation.   The man darted a look at her and put down hisear of corn. "So you consider your childhood athing of the past, do you, young lady?""I can still remember it," answered Rebeccagravely, "though it seems a long time ago.""I can remember mine well enough, and aparticularly unpleasant one it was," said the stranger.   "So was mine," sighed Rebecca. "What wasyour worst trouble?""Lack of food and clothes principally.""Oh!" exclaimed Rebecca sympathetically,--"mine was no shoes and too many babies and notenough books. But you're all right and happynow, aren't you?" she asked doubtfully, for thoughhe looked handsome, well-fed, and prosperous, anychild could see that his eyes were tired and hismouth was sad when he was not speaking.   "I'm doing pretty well, thank you," said theman, with a delightful smile. "Now tell me, howmuch soap ought I to buy to-day?""How much has your aunt on hand now?"suggested the very modest and inexperienced agent;"and how much would she need?""Oh, I don't know about that; soap keeps,doesn't it?""I'm not certain," said Rebecca conscientiously,"but I'll look in the circular--it's sure to tell;"and she drew the document from her pocket.   "What are you going to do with the magnificentprofits you get from this business?""We are not selling for our own benefit," saidRebecca confidentially. "My friend who is holdingthe horse at the gate is the daughter of a veryrich blacksmith, and doesn't need any money. Iam poor, but I live with my aunts in a brick house,and of course they wouldn't like me to be apeddler. We are trying to get a premium for somefriends of ours."Rebecca had never thought of alluding to thecircumstances with her previous customers, butunexpectedly she found herself describing Mr. Simpson,Mrs. Simpson, and the Simpson family; their poverty,their joyless life, and their abject need of abanquet lamp to brighten their existence.   "You needn't argue that point," laughed theman, as he stood up to get a glimpse of the "richblacksmith's daughter" at the gate. "I can see thatthey ought to have it if they want it, and especiallyif you want them to have it. I've known what it wasmyself to do without a banquet lamp. Now give methe circular, and let's do some figuring. How muchdo the Simpsons lack at this moment?""If they sell two hundred more cakes this monthand next, they can have the lamp by Christmas,"Rebecca answered, "and they can get a shade bysummer time; but I'm afraid I can't help very muchafter to-day, because my aunt Miranda may not liketo have me.""I see. Well, that's all right. I'll take threehundred cakes, and that will give them shade andall."Rebecca had been seated on a stool very near tothe edge of the porch, and at this remark she madea sudden movement, tipped over, and disappearedinto a clump of lilac bushes. It was a very shortdistance, fortunately, and the amused capitalist pickedher up, set her on her feet, and brushed her off.   "You should never seem surprised when you havetaken a large order," said he; "you ought to havereplied `Can't you make it three hundred and fifty?'   instead of capsizing in that unbusinesslike way.""Oh, I could never say anything like that!"exclaimed Rebecca, who was blushing crimson at herawkward fall. "But it doesn't seem right for youto buy so much. Are you sure you can afford it?""If I can't, I'll save on something else," returnedthe jocose philanthropist.   "What if your aunt shouldn't like the kind ofsoap?" queried Rebecca nervously.   "My aunt always likes what I like," he returned"Mine doesn't!" exclaimed Rebecca"Then there's something wrong with your aunt!""Or with me," laughed Rebecca.   "What is your name, young lady?""Rebecca Rowena Randall, sir.""What?" with an amused smile. "BOTH? Yourmother was generous.""She couldn't bear to give up either of thenames she says.""Do you want to hear my name?""I think I know already," answered Rebecca, witha bright glance. "I'm sure you must be Mr. Aladdinin the Arabian Nights. Oh, please, can I rundown and tell Emma Jane? She must be so tiredwaiting, and she will be so glad!"At the man's nod of assent Rebecca sped downthe lane, crying irrepressibly as she neared thewagon, "Oh, Emma Jane! Emma Jane! we are soldout!"Mr. Aladdin followed smilingly to corroboratethis astonishing, unbelievable statement; lifted alltheir boxes from the back of the wagon, and takingthe circular, promised to write to the ExcelsiorCompany that night concerning the premium.   "If you could contrive to keep a secret,--youtwo little girls,--it would be rather a nice surpriseto have the lamp arrive at the Simpsons' on ThanksgivingDay, wouldn't it?" he asked, as he tuckedthe old lap robe cosily over their feet.   They gladly assented, and broke into a chorus ofexcited thanks during which tears of joy stood inRebecca's eyes.   "Oh, don't mention it!" laughed Mr. Aladdin,lifting his hat. "I was a sort of commercial travelermyself once,--years ago,--and I like to seethe thing well done. Good-by Miss Rebecca Rowena!   Just let me know whenever you have anythingto sell, for I'm certain beforehand I shall want it.""Good-by, Mr. Aladdin! I surely will!" criedRebecca, tossing back her dark braids delightedlyand waving her hand.   "Oh, Rebecca!" said Emma Jane in an awe-struck whisper. "He raised his hat to us, and wenot thirteen! It'll be five years before we'reladies.""Never mind," answered Rebecca; "we are theBEGINNINGS of ladies, even now.""He tucked the lap robe round us, too,"continued Emma Jane, in an ecstasy of reminiscence.   "Oh! isn't he perfectly elergant? And wasn't itlovely of him to buy us out? And just think ofhaving both the lamp and the shade for one day'swork! Aren't you glad you wore your pink ginghamnow, even if mother did make you put onflannel underneath? You do look so pretty in pinkand red, Rebecca, and so homely in drab andbrown!""I know it," sighed Rebecca "I wish I waslike you--pretty in all colors!" And Rebeccalooked longingly at Emma Jane's fat, rosy cheeks;at her blue eyes, which said nothing; at her neatnose, which had no character; at her red lips, frombetween which no word worth listening to had everissued.   "Never mind!" said Emma Jane comfortingly.   "Everybody says you're awful bright and smart, andmother thinks you'll be better looking all the timeas you grow older. You wouldn't believe it, but Iwas a dreadful homely baby, and homely right alongtill just a year or two ago, when my red hair beganto grow dark. What was the nice man's name?""I never thought to ask!" ejaculated Rebecca.   "Aunt Miranda would say that was just like me,and it is. But I called him Mr. Aladdin because hegave us a lamp. You know the story of Aladdin andthe wonderful lamp?""Oh, Rebecca! how could you call him a nicknamethe very first time you ever saw him?""Aladdin isn't a nickname exactly; anyway, helaughed and seemed to like it."By dint of superhuman effort, and putting sucha seal upon their lips as never mortals put before,the two girls succeeded in keeping their wonderfulnews to themselves; although it was obvious to allbeholders that they were in an extraordinary andabnormal state of mind.   On Thanksgiving the lamp arrived in a largepacking box, and was taken out and set up by See-saw Simpson, who suddenly began to admire andrespect the business ability of his sisters. Rebeccahad heard the news of its arrival, but waited untilnearly dark before asking permission to go to theSimpsons', so that she might see the gorgeoustrophy lighted and sending a blaze of crimsonglory through its red crepe paper shade. Chapter 15 The Banquet Lamp There had been company at the brickhouse to the bountiful Thanksgivingdinner which had been provided at oneo'clock,--the Burnham sisters, who lived betweenNorth Riverboro and Shaker Village, and who formore than a quarter of a century had come to passthe holiday with the Sawyers every year. Rebeccasat silent with a book after the dinner dishes werewashed, and when it was nearly five asked if shemight go to the Simpsons'.   "What do you want to run after those Simpsonchildren for on a Thanksgiving Day?" queried MissMiranda. "Can't you set still for once and listento the improvin' conversation of your elders? Younever can let well enough alone, but want to be foreveron the move.""The Simpsons have a new lamp, and EmmaJane and I promised to go up and see it lighted,and make it a kind of a party.""What under the canopy did they want of alamp, and where did they get the money to pay forit? If Abner was at home, I should think he'd beenswappin' again," said Miss Miranda.   "The children got it as a prize for selling soap,"replied Rebecca; "they've been working for a year,and you know I told you that Emma Jane and Ihelped them the Saturday afternoon you were inPortland.""I didn't take notice, I s'pose, for it's the firsttime I ever heard the lamp mentioned. Well, youcan go for an hour, and no more. Remember it'sas dark at six as it is at midnight Would you liketo take along some Baldwin apples? What haveyou got in the pocket of that new dress that makesit sag down so?""It's my nuts and raisins from dinner," repliedRebecca, who never succeeded in keeping the mostinnocent action a secret from her aunt Miranda;"they're just what you gave me on my plate.""Why didn't you eat them?""Because I'd had enough dinner, and I thoughtif I saved these, it would make the Simpsons'   party better," stammered Rebecca, who hated tobe scolded and examined before company.   "They were your own, Rebecca," interposedaunt Jane, "and if you chose to save them to giveaway, it is all right. We ought never to let this daypass without giving our neighbors something to bethankful for, instead of taking all the time to thinkof our own mercies."The Burnham sisters nodded approvingly asRebecca went out, and remarked that they had neverseen a child grow and improve so fast in so short atime.   "There's plenty of room left for more improvement,as you'd know if she lived in the same housewith you," answered Miranda. "She's into everynamable thing in the neighborhood, an' not onlyinto it, but generally at the head an' front of it,especially when it's mischief. Of all the foolishnessI ever heard of, that lamp beats everything; it'sjust like those Simpsons, but I didn't suppose thechildren had brains enough to sell anything.""One of them must have," said Miss EllenBurnham, "for the girl that was selling soap at theLadds' in North Riverboro was described by AdamLadd as the most remarkable and winning child heever saw.""It must have been Clara Belle, and I shouldnever call her remarkable," answered Miss Miranda.   "Has Adam been home again?""Yes, he's been staying a few days with his aunt.   There's no limit to the money he's making, theysay; and he always brings presents for all theneighbors. This time it was a full set of furs forMrs. Ladd; and to think we can remember thetime he was a barefoot boy without two shirts to hisback! It is strange he hasn't married, with all hismoney, and him so fond of children that he alwayshas a pack of them at his heels.""There's hope for him still, though," said MissJane smilingly; "for I don't s'pose he's more thanthirty.""He could get a wife in Riverboro if he was ahundred and thirty," remarked Miss Miranda.   "Adam's aunt says he was so taken with the littlegirl that sold the soap (Clara Belle, did you say hername was?), that he declared he was going to bringher a Christmas present," continued Miss Ellen.   "Well, there's no accountin' for tastes," exclaimedMiss Miranda. "Clara Belle's got cross-eyes andred hair, but I'd be the last one to grudge her aChristmas present; the more Adam Ladd gives toher the less the town'll have to.""Isn't there another Simpson girl?" asked MissLydia Burnham; "for this one couldn't have beencross-eyed; I remember Mrs. Ladd saying Adamremarked about this child's handsome eyes. He saidit was her eyes that made him buy the three hundredcakes. Mrs. Ladd has it stacked up in the shedchamber.""Three hundred cakes!" ejaculated Miranda.   "Well, there's one crop that never fails in Riverboro!""What's that?" asked Miss Lydia politely.   "The fool crop," responded Miranda tersely, andchanged the subject, much to Jane's gratitude, forshe had been nervous and ill at ease for the last fifteenminutes. What child in Riverboro could bedescribed as remarkable and winning, save Rebecca?   What child had wonderful eyes, except the sameRebecca? and finally, was there ever a child in theworld who could make a man buy soap by the hundredcakes, save Rebecca?   Meantime the "remarkable" child had flown upthe road in the deepening dusk, but she had notgone far before she heard the sound of hurryingfootsteps, and saw a well-known figure coming inher direction. In a moment she and Emma Janemet and exchanged a breathless embrace.   "Something awful has happened," panted EmmaJane.   "Don't tell me it's broken," exclaimed Rebecca.   "No! oh, no! not that! It was packed in straw,and every piece came out all right; and I was there,and I never said a single thing about your sellingthe three hundred cakes that got the lamp, so thatwe could be together when you told.""OUR selling the three hundred cakes," correctedRebecca; "you did as much as I.""No, I didn't, Rebecca Randall. I just sat at thegate and held the horse.""Yes, but WHOSE horse was it that took us toNorth Riverboro? And besides, it just happenedto be my turn. If you had gone in and found Mr.   Aladdin you would have had the wonderful lampgiven to you; but what's the trouble?""The Simpsons have no kerosene and no wicks.   I guess they thought a banquet lamp was somethingthat lighted itself, and burned without anyhelp. Seesaw has gone to the doctor's to try if hecan borrow a wick, and mother let me have a pintof oil, but she says she won't give me any more.   We never thought of the expense of keeping upthe lamp, Rebecca.""No, we didn't, but let's not worry about thattill after the party. I have a handful of nuts andraisins and some apples.""I have peppermints and maple sugar," saidEmma Jane. "They had a real Thanksgiving dinner;the doctor gave them sweet potatoes and cranberriesand turnips; father sent a spare-rib, and Mrs.   Cobb a chicken and a jar of mince-meat."At half past five one might have looked in atthe Simpsons' windows, and seen the party at itsheight. Mrs. Simpson had let the kitchen fire dieout, and had brought the baby to grace the festalscene. The lamp seemed to be having the party,and receiving the guests. The children had takenthe one small table in the house, and it was placedin the far corner of the room to serve as a pedestal.   On it stood the sacred, the adored, the long-desiredobject; almost as beautiful, and nearly half as largeas the advertisement. The brass glistened like gold,and the crimson paper shade glowed like a giantruby. In the wide splash of light that it flung uponthe floor sat the Simpsons, in reverent and solemnsilence, Emma Jane standing behind them, hand inhand with Rebecca. There seemed to be no desirefor conversation; the occasion was too thrilling andserious for that. The lamp, it was tacitly felt byeverybody, was dignifying the party, and providingsufficient entertainment simply by its presence;being fully as satisfactory in its way as a pianola ora string band.   "I wish father could see it," said Clara Belleloyally.   "If he onth thaw it he'd want to thwap it,"murmured Susan sagaciously.   At the appointed hour Rebecca dragged herselfreluctantly away from the enchanting scene.   "I'll turn the lamp out the minute I think youand Emma Jane are home," said Clara Belle.   "And, oh! I'm so glad you both live where youcan see it shine from our windows. I wonder howlong it will burn without bein' filled if I only keepit lit one hour every night?""You needn't put it out for want o' karosene,"said Seesaw, coming in from the shed, "for there'sa great kag of it settin' out there. Mr. Tubbsbrought it over from North Riverboro and saidsomebody sent an order by mail for it."Rebecca squeezed Emma Jane's arm, and EmmaJane gave a rapturous return squeeze. "It was Mr.   Aladdin," whispered Rebecca, as they ran downthe path to the gate. Seesaw followed them andhandsomely offered to see them "apiece" downthe road, but Rebecca declined his escort withsuch decision that he did not press the matter, butwent to bed to dream of her instead. In his dreamsflashes of lightning proceeded from both her eyes,and she held a flaming sword in either hand.   Rebecca entered the home dining-room joyously.   The Burnham sisters had gone and the two auntswere knitting.   "It was a heavenly party," she cried, taking offher hat and cape.   "Go back and see if you have shut the doortight, and then lock it," said Miss Miranda, in herusual austere manner.   "It was a heavenly party," reiterated Rebecca,coming in again, much too excited to be easilycrushed, "and oh! aunt Jane, aunt Miranda, ifyou'll only come into the kitchen and look out ofthe sink window, you can see the banquet lampshining all red, just as if the Simpsons' house wason fire.""And probably it will be before long," observedMiranda. "I've got no patience with such foolishgoin's-on."Jane accompanied Rebecca into the kitchen.   Although the feeble glimmer which she was ableto see from that distance did not seem to her adazzling exhibition, she tried to be as enthusiasticas possible.   "Rebecca, who was it that sold the threehundred cakes of soap to Mr. Ladd in North Riverboro?""Mr. WHO?" exclaimed Rebecca"Mr. Ladd, in North Riverboro.""Is that his real name?" queried Rebecca inastonishment. "I didn't make a bad guess;" andshe laughed softly to herself.   "I asked you who sold the soap to AdamLadd?" resumed Miss Jane.   "Adam Ladd! then he's A. Ladd, too; what fun!""Answer me, Rebecca.""Oh! excuse me, aunt Jane, I was so busythinking. Emma Jane and I sold the soap to Mr.   Ladd.""Did you tease him, or make him buy it?""Now, aunt Jane, how could I make a biggrown-up man buy anything if he didn't want to?   He needed the soap dreadfully as a present for hisaunt."Miss Jane still looked a little unconvinced,though she only said, "I hope your aunt Mirandawon't mind, but you know how particular she is,Rebecca, and I really wish you wouldn't doanything out of the ordinary without asking her first,for your actions are very queer.""There can't be anything wrong this time,"Rebecca answered confidently. "Emma Jane soldher cakes to her own relations and to uncle JerryCobb, and I went first to those new tenements nearthe lumber mill, and then to the Ladds'. Mr. Laddbought all we had and made us promise to keepthe secret until the premium came, and I've beengoing about ever since as if the banquet lamp wasinside of me all lighted up and burning, for everybodyto see."Rebecca's hair was loosened and falling over herforehead in ruffled waves; her eyes were brilliant,her cheeks crimson; there was a hint of everythingin the girl's face,--of sensitiveness and delicacyas well as of ardor; there was the sweetnessof the mayflower and the strength of the youngoak, but one could easily divine that she was one of"The souls by nature pitched too high,By suffering plunged too low.""That's just the way you look, for all the worldas if you did have a lamp burning inside of you,"sighed aunt Jane. "Rebecca! Rebecca! I wishyou could take things easier, child; I am fearfulfor you sometimes." Chapter 16 Seasons Of Growth The days flew by; as summer had meltedinto autumn so autumn had given place towinter. Life in the brick house had goneon more placidly of late, for Rebecca was honestlytrying to be more careful in the performance of hertasks and duties as well as more quiet in her plays,and she was slowly learning the power of the softanswer in turning away wrath.   Miranda had not had, perhaps, quite as manyopportunities in which to lose her temper, but it isonly just to say that she had not fully availed herselfof all that had offered themselves.   There had been one outburst of righteous wrathoccasioned by Rebecca's over-hospitable habits,which were later shown in a still more dramatic andunexpected fashion.   On a certain Friday afternoon she asked her auntMiranda if she might take half her bread and milkupstairs to a friend.   "What friend have you got up there, for pity'ssake?" demanded aunt Miranda.   "The Simpson baby, come to stay over Sunday;that is, if you're willing, Mrs. Simpson says she is.   Shall I bring her down and show her? She's dressedin an old dress of Emma Jane's and she looks sweet.""You can bring her down, but you can't showher to me! You can smuggle her out the way yousmuggled her in and take her back to her mother.   Where on earth do you get your notions, borrowinga baby for Sunday!""You're so used to a house without a baby youdon't know how dull it is," sighed Rebecca resignedly,as she moved towards the door; "but at thefarm there was always a nice fresh one to play withand cuddle. There were too many, but that's nothalf as bad as none at all. Well, I'll take her back.   She'll be dreadfully disappointed and so will Mrs.   Simpson. She was planning to go to Milltown.""She can un-plan then," observed Miss Miranda.   "Perhaps I can go up there and take care of thebaby?" suggested Rebecca. "I brought her homeso 't I could do my Saturday work just the same.""You've got enough to do right here, withoutany borrowed babies to make more steps. Now, noanswering back, just give the child some supper andcarry it home where it belongs.""You don't want me to go down the front way,hadn't I better just come through this room andlet you look at her? She has yellow hair and bigblue eyes! Mrs. Simpson says she takes after herfather."Miss Miranda smiled acidly as she said shecouldn't take after her father, for he'd take anything there was before she got there!   Aunt Jane was in the linen closet upstairs, sortingout the clean sheets and pillow cases for Saturday,and Rebecca sought comfort from her.   "I brought the Simpson baby home, aunt Jane,thinking it would help us over a dull Sunday, butaunt Miranda won't let her stay. Emma Jane hasthe promise of her next Sunday and Alice Robinsonthe next. Mrs. Simpson wanted I should have herfirst because I've had so much experience in babies.   Come in and look at her sitting up in my bed, auntJane! Isn't she lovely? She's the fat, gurglykind, not thin and fussy like some babies, and Ithought I was going to have her to undress anddress twice each day. Oh dear! I wish I couldhave a printed book with everything set down in itthat I COULD do, and then I wouldn't get disappointedso often.""No book could be printed that would fit you,Rebecca," answered aunt Jane, "for nobody couldimagine beforehand the things you'd want to do.   Are you going to carry that heavy child home inyour arms?""No, I'm going to drag her in the littlesoap-wagon. Come, baby! Take your thumb out ofyour mouth and come to ride with Becky in yourgo-cart." She stretched out her strong young armsto the crowing baby, sat down in a chair with thechild, turned her upside down unceremoniously,took from her waistband and scornfully flung awaya crooked pin, walked with her (still in a highlyreversed position) to the bureau, selected a largesafety pin, and proceeded to attach her brief redflannel petticoat to a sort of shirt that she wore.   Whether flat on her stomach, or head down, heelsin the air, the Simpson baby knew she was in thehands of an expert, and continued gurgling placidlywhile aunt Jane regarded the pantomime with akind of dazed awe.   "Bless my soul, Rebecca," she ejaculated, "itbeats all how handy you are with babies!""I ought to be; I've brought up three and ahalf of 'em," Rebecca responded cheerfully, pullingup the infant Simpson's stockings.   "I should think you'd be fonder of dolls thanyou are," said Jane.   "I do like them, but there's never any changein a doll; it's always the same everlasting old doll,and you have to make believe it's cross or sick, orit loves you, or can't bear you. Babies are moretrouble, but nicer."Miss Jane stretched out a thin hand with a slender,worn band of gold on the finger, and the babycurled her dimpled fingers round it and held it fast.   "You wear a ring on your engagement finger,don't you, aunt Jane? Did you ever think aboutgetting married?""Yes, dear, long ago.""What happened, aunt Jane?""He died--just before.""Oh!" And Rebecca's eyes grew misty.   "He was a soldier and he died of a gunshotwound, in a hospital, down South.""Oh! aunt Jane!" softly. "Away from you?""No, I was with him.""Was he young?""Yes; young and brave and handsome, Rebecca;he was Mr. Carter's brother Tom.""Oh! I'm so glad you were with him! Wasn'the glad, aunt Jane?"Jane looked back across the half-forgotten years,and the vision of Tom's gladness flashed upon her:   his haggard smile, the tears in his tired eyes, hisoutstretched arms, his weak voice saying, "Oh, Jenny!   Dear Jenny! I've wanted you so, Jenny!" It wastoo much! She had never breathed a word of itbefore to a human creature, for there was no one whowould have understood. Now, in a shamefaced way,to hide her brimming eyes, she put her head downon the young shoulder beside her, saying, "It washard, Rebecca!"The Simpson baby had cuddled down sleepily inRebecca's lap, leaning her head back and suckingher thumb contentedly. Rebecca put her cheekdown until it touched her aunt's gray hair and softlypatted her, as she said, "I'm sorry, aunt Jane!"The girl's eyes were soft and tender and theheart within her stretched a little and grew; grewin sweetness and intuition and depth of feeling. Ithad looked into another heart, felt it beat, andheard it sigh; and that is how all hearts grow.   Episodes like these enlivened the quiet course ofevery-day existence, made more quiet by the departureof Dick Carter, Living Perkins, and HuldahMeserve for Wareham, and the small attendance atthe winter school, from which the younger childrenof the place stayed away during the cold weather.   Life, however, could never be thoroughly dullor lacking in adventure to a child of Rebecca'stemperament. Her nature was full of adaptability,fluidity, receptivity. She made friends everywhereshe went, and snatched up acquaintances in everycorner.   It was she who ran to the shed door to take thedish to the "meat man" or "fish man;" she whoknew the family histories of the itinerant fruitvenders and tin peddlers; she who was asked to takesupper or pass the night with children in neighboringvillages--children of whose parents her auntshad never so much as heard. As to the nature ofthese friendships, which seemed so many to theeye of the superficial observer, they were of variouskinds, and while the girl pursued them withenthusiasm and ardor, they left her unsatisfied andheart-hungry; they were never intimacies such asare so readily made by shallow natures. She lovedEmma Jane, but it was a friendship born of propinquityand circumstance, not of true affinity. It washer neighbor's amiability, constancy, and devotionthat she loved, and although she rated these qualitiesat their true value, she was always searchingbeyond them for intellectual treasures; searchingand never finding, for although Emma Jane hadthe advantage in years she was still immature.   Huldah Meserve had an instinctive love of funwhich appealed to Rebecca; she also had a fascinatingknowledge of the world, from having visitedher married sisters in Milltown and Portland; buton the other hand there was a certain sharpnessand lack of sympathy in Huldah which repelledrather than attracted. With Dick Carter she couldat least talk intelligently about lessons. He was avery ambitious boy, full of plans for his future, whichhe discussed quite freely with Rebecca, but whenshe broached the subject of her future his interestsensibly lessened. Into the world of the ideal EmmaJane, Huldah, and Dick alike never seemed to havepeeped, and the consciousness of this was always afixed gulf between them and Rebecca.   "Uncle Jerry" and "aunt Sarah" Cobb weredear friends of quite another sort, a very satisfyingand perhaps a somewhat dangerous one. A visitfrom Rebecca always sent them into a twitter ofdelight. Her merry conversation and quaint come-ments on life in general fairly dazzled the old couple,who hung on her lightest word as if it had beena prophet's utterance; and Rebecca, though shehad had no previous experience, owned to herself aperilous pleasure in being dazzling, even to a coupleof dear humdrum old people like Mr. and Mrs. Cobb.   Aunt Sarah flew to the pantry or cellar wheneverRebecca's slim little shape first appeared on the crestof the hill, and a jelly tart or a frosted cake was sureto be forthcoming. The sight of old uncle Jerry'sspare figure in its clean white shirt sleeves, whateverthe weather, always made Rebecca's heart warmwhen she saw him peer longingly from the kitchenwindow. Before the snow came, many was the timehe had come out to sit on a pile of boards at thegate, to see if by any chance she was mounting thehill that led to their house. In the autumn Rebeccawas often the old man's companion while he wasdigging potatoes or shelling beans, and now in thewinter, when a younger man was driving the stage,she sometimes stayed with him while he did hisevening milking. It is safe to say that he was theonly creature in Riverboro who possessed Rebecca'sentire confidence; the only being to whom shepoured out her whole heart, with its wealth of hopes,and dreams, and vague ambitions. At the brickhouse she practiced scales and exercises, but at theCobbs' cabinet organ she sang like a bird, improvisingsimple accompaniments that seemed to herignorant auditors nothing short of marvelous. Hereshe was happy, here she was loved, here she wasdrawn out of herself and admired and made muchof. But, she thought, if there were somebody whonot only loved but understood; who spoke her language,comprehended her desires, and responded toher mysterious longings! Perhaps in the big worldof Wareham there would be people who thoughtand dreamed and wondered as she did.   In reality Jane did not understand her niece verymuch better than Miranda; the difference betweenthe sisters was, that while Jane was puzzled, shewas also attracted, and when she was quite in thedark for an explanation of some quaint or unusualaction she was sympathetic as to its possible motiveand believed the best. A greater change had comeover Jane than over any other person in the brickhouse, but it had been wrought so secretly, andconcealed so religiously, that it scarcely appeared to theordinary observer. Life had now a motive utterlylacking before. Breakfast was not eaten in thekitchen, because it seemed worth while, now thatthere were three persons, to lay the cloth in the dining-room; it was also a more bountiful meal than ofyore, when there was no child to consider. Themorning was made cheerful by Rebecca's start forschool, the packing of the luncheon basket, the finalword about umbrella, waterproof, or rubbers; theparting admonition and the unconscious waiting atthe window for the last wave of the hand. She foundherself taking pride in Rebecca's improved appearance,her rounder throat and cheeks, and her bettercolor; she was wont to mention the length ofRebecca's hair and add a word as to its remarkableevenness and lustre, at times when Mrs. Perkinsgrew too diffuse about Emma Jane's complexion.   She threw herself wholeheartedly on her niece's sidewhen it became a question between a crimson ora brown linsey-woolsey dress, and went through amemorable struggle with her sister concerning thepurchase of a red bird for Rebecca's black felt hat.   No one guessed the quiet pleasure that lay hidden inher heart when she watched the girl's dark head bentover her lessons at night, nor dreamed of her joy it,certain quiet evenings when Miranda went to prayermeeting; evenings when Rebecca would read aloudHiawatha or Barbara Frietchie, The Bugle Song,or The Brook. Her narrow, humdrum existencebloomed under the dews that fell from this freshspirit; her dullness brightened under the kindlingtouch of the younger mind, took fire from the "vitalspark of heavenly flame" that seemed always toradiate from Rebecca's presence.   Rebecca's idea of being a painter like her friendMiss Ross was gradually receding, owing to theapparently insuperable difficulties in securing anyinstruction. Her aunt Miranda saw no wisdom incultivating such a talent, and could not conceive thatany money could ever be earned by its exercise,"Hand painted pictures" were held in little esteemin Riverboro, where the cheerful chromo or thedignified steel engraving were respected and valued.   There was a slight, a very slight hope, that Rebeccamight be allowed a few music lessons from MissMorton, who played the church cabinet organ, butthis depended entirely upon whether Mrs. Mortonwould decide to accept a hayrack in return for ayear's instruction from her daughter. She had thematter under advisement, but a doubt as to whetheror not she would sell or rent her hayfields kept herfrom coming to a conclusion. Music, in commonwith all other accomplishments, was viewed by MissMiranda as a trivial, useless, and foolish amusement,but she allowed Rebecca an hour a day for practiceon the old piano, and a little extra time forlessons, if Jane could secure them without payment ofactual cash.   The news from Sunnybrook Farm was hopefulrather than otherwise. Cousin Ann's husband haddied, and John, Rebecca's favorite brother, had goneto be the man of the house to the widowed cousin.   He was to have good schooling in return for his careof the horse and cow and barn, and what was stillmore dazzling, the use of the old doctor's medicallibrary of two or three dozen volumes. John's wholeheart was set on becoming a country doctor, withRebecca to keep house for him, and the visionseemed now so true, so near, that he could almostimagine his horse ploughing through snowdrifts onerrands of mercy, or, less dramatic but none theless attractive, could see a physician's neat turncuttrundling along the shady country roads, a medicinecase between his, Dr. Randall's, feet, and MissRebecca Randall sitting in a black silk dress by hisside.   Hannah now wore her hair in a coil and herdresses a trifle below her ankles, these concessionsbeing due to her extreme height. Mark had brokenhis collar bone, but it was healing well. Little Mirawas growing very pretty. There was even a rumorthat the projected railroad from Temperance toPlumville might go near the Randall farm, in whichcase land would rise in value from nothing-at-all anacre to something at least resembling a price. Mrs.   Randall refused to consider any improvement intheir financial condition as a possibility. Content towork from sunrise to sunset to gain a meresubsistence for her children, she lived in their future,not in her own present, as a mother is wont to dowhen her own lot seems hard and cheerless. Chapter 17 Gray Days And Gold When Rebecca looked back upon theyear or two that followed the Simpsons'   Thanksgiving party, she could see onlycertain milestones rising in the quiet pathway ofthe months.   The first milestone was Christmas Day. It wasa fresh, crystal morning, with icicles hanging likedazzling pendants from the trees and a glaze ofpale blue on the surface of the snow. The Simpsons'   red barn stood out, a glowing mass of color inthe white landscape. Rebecca had been busy forweeks before, trying to make a present for each ofthe seven persons at Sunnybrook Farm, a somewhatdifficult proceeding on an expenditure of fiftycents, hoarded by incredible exertion. Success hadbeen achieved, however, and the precious packethad been sent by post two days previous. MissSawyer had bought her niece a nice gray squirrelmuff and tippet, which was even more unbecomingif possible, than Rebecca's other articles of wearingapparel; but aunt Jane had made her the loveliestdress of green cashmere, a soft, soft green likethat of a young leaf. It was very simply made, butthe color delighted the eye. Then there was abeautiful "tatting" collar from her mother, somescarlet mittens from Mrs. Cobb, and a handkerchieffrom Emma Jane.   Rebecca herself had fashioned an elaborate tea-cosy with a letter "M" in outline stitch, and apretty frilled pincushion marked with a "J," for hertwo aunts, so that taken all together the day wouldhave been an unequivocal success had nothing elsehappened; but something else did.   There was a knock at the door at breakfast time,and Rebecca, answering it, was asked by a boy ifMiss Rebecca Randall lived there. On being toldthat she did, he handed her a parcel bearing hername, a parcel which she took like one in a dreamand bore into the dining-room.   "It's a present; it must be," she said, lookingat it in a dazed sort of way; "but I can't thinkwho it could be from.""A good way to find out would be to open it,"remarked Miss Miranda.   The parcel being untied proved to have twosmaller packages within, and Rebecca opened withtrembling fingers the one addressed to her. Anybody'sfingers would have trembled. There was acase which, when the cover was lifted, disclosed along chain of delicate pink coral beads,--a chainending in a cross made of coral rosebuds. A cardwith "Merry Christmas from Mr. Aladdin" layunder the cross.   "Of all things!" exclaimed the two old ladies,rising in their seats. "Who sent it?""Mr. Ladd," said Rebecca under her breath.   "Adam Ladd! Well I never! Don't you rememberEllen Burnham said he was going to sendRebecca a Christmas present? But I never supposedhe'd think of it again," said Jane. "What'sthe other package?"It proved to be a silver chain with a blue enamellocket on it, marked for Emma Jane. That addedthe last touch--to have him remember them both!   There was a letter also, which ran:--Dear Miss Rebecca Rowena,--My idea of aChristmas present is something entirely unnecessaryand useless. I have always noticed when Igive this sort of thing that people love it, so Ihope I have not chosen wrong for you and yourfriend. You must wear your chain this afternoon,please, and let me see it on your neck, for I amcoming over in my new sleigh to take you both todrive. My aunt is delighted with the soap.   Sincerely your friend,Adam Ladd.   "Well, well!" cried Miss Jane, "isn't that kindof him? He's very fond of children, Lyddy Burnhamsays. Now eat your breakfast, Rebecca, andafter we've done the dishes you can run over toEmma's and give her her chain-- What's the matter,child?"Rebecca's emotions seemed always to be stored,as it were, in adjoining compartments, and to becontinually getting mixed. At this moment, thoughher joy was too deep for words, her bread and butteralmost choked her, and at intervals a tear stolefurtively down her cheek.   Mr. Ladd called as he promised, and made theacquaintance of the aunts, understanding them bothin five minutes as well as if he had known themfor years. On a footstool near the open fire satRebecca, silent and shy, so conscious of her fineapparel and the presence of aunt Miranda that shecould not utter a word. It was one of her "beautydays." Happiness, excitement, the color of thegreen dress, and the touch of lovely pink in thecoral necklace had transformed the little brownwren for the time into a bird of plumage, and AdamLadd watched her with evident satisfaction. Thenthere was the sleigh ride, during which she foundher tongue and chattered like any magpie, and soended that glorious Christmas Day; and many andmany a night thereafter did Rebecca go to sleepwith the precious coral chain under her pillow, onehand always upon it to be certain that it was safe.   Another milestone was the departure of theSimpsons from Riverboro, bag and baggage, thebanquet lamp being their most conspicuous posses-sion. It was delightful to be rid of Seesaw's hatefulpresence; but otherwise the loss of severalplaymates at one fell swoop made rather a gapin Riverboro's "younger set," and Rebecca wasobliged to make friends with the Robinson baby,he being the only long-clothes child in the villagethat winter. The faithful Seesaw had called at theside door of the brick house on the evening beforehis departure, and when Rebecca answered hisknock, stammered solemnly, "Can I k-keep comp'nywith you when you g-g-row up?" "Certainly NOT,"replied Rebecca, closing the door somewhattoo speedily upon her precocious swain.   Mr. Simpson had come home in time to movehis wife and children back to the town that hadgiven them birth, a town by no means waiting withopen arms to receive them. The Simpsons' movingwas presided over by the village authorities andsomewhat anxiously watched by the entireneighborhood, but in spite of all precautions a pulpitchair, several kerosene lamps, and a small stovedisappeared from the church and were successfullyswapped in the course of Mr. Simpson'sdriving tour from the old home to the new. It gaveRebecca and Emma Jane some hours of sorrow tolearn that a certain village in the wake of AbnerSimpson's line of progress had acquired, throughthe medium of an ambitious young minister, amagnificent lamp for its new church parlors. No moneychanged hands in the operation; for the ministersucceeded in getting the lamp in return for an oldbicycle. The only pleasant feature of the wholeaffair was that Mr. Simpson, wholly unable to consolehis offspring for the loss of the beloved object,mounted the bicycle and rode away on it, not tobe seen or heard of again for many a long day.   The year was notable also as being the one inwhich Rebecca shot up like a young tree. She hadseemingly never grown an inch since she was tenyears old, but once started she attended to growingprecisely as she did other things,--with suchenergy, that Miss Jane did nothing for months butlengthen skirts, sleeves, and waists. In spite of allthe arts known to a thrifty New England woman,the limit of letting down and piecing down wasreached at last, and the dresses were sent to SunnybrookFarm to be made over for Jenny.   There was another milestone, a sad one, markinga little grave under a willow tree at SunnybrookFarm. Mira, the baby of the Randall family,died, and Rebecca went home for a fortnight'svisit. The sight of the small still shape that hadbeen Mira, the baby who had been her specialcharge ever since her birth, woke into being a hostof new thoughts and wonderments; for it is sometimesthe mystery of death that brings one to aconsciousness of the still greater mystery of life.   It was a sorrowful home-coming for Rebecca. Thedeath of Mira, the absence of John, who had beenher special comrade, the sadness of her mother, theisolation of the little house, and the pinchingeconomies that went on within it, all conspired todepress a child who was so sensitive to beauty andharmony as Rebecca.   Hannah seemed to have grown into a womanduring Rebecca's absence. There had always beena strange unchildlike air about Hannah, but incertain ways she now appeared older than aunt Jane--soberer, and more settled. She was pretty,though in a colorless fashion; pretty and capable.   Rebecca walked through all the old playgroundsand favorite haunts of her early childhood; all herfamiliar, her secret places; some of them known toJohn, some to herself alone. There was the spotwhere the Indian pipes grew; the particular bit ofmarshy ground where the fringed gentians used tobe largest and bluest; the rock maple where shefound the oriole's nest; the hedge where the fieldmice lived; the moss-covered stump where thewhite toadstools were wont to spring up as if bymagic; the hole at the root of the old pine where anancient and honorable toad made his home; thesewere the landmarks of her childhood, and she lookedat them as across an immeasurable distance. Thedear little sunny brook, her chief companion afterJohn, was sorry company at this season. Therewas no laughing water sparkling in the sunshine.   In summer the merry stream had danced over whitepebbles on its way to deep pools where it could bestill and think. Now, like Mira, it was cold andquiet, wrapped in its shroud of snow; but Rebeccaknelt by the brink, and putting her ear to the glazeof ice, fancied, where it used to be deepest, she couldhear a faint, tinkling sound. It was all right! Sunnybrookwould sing again in the spring; perhaps Miratoo would have her singing time somewhere--shewondered where and how. In the course of theselonely rambles she was ever thinking, thinking,of one subject. Hannah had never had a chance;never been freed from the daily care and work ofthe farm. She, Rebecca, had enjoyed all the privilegesthus far. Life at the brick house had not beenby any means a path of roses, but there had beencomfort and the companionship of other children, aswell as chances for study and reading. Riverborohad not been the world itself, but it had been aglimpse of it through a tiny peephole that wasinfinitely better than nothing. Rebecca shed morethan one quiet tear before she could trust herself tooffer up as a sacrifice that which she so much desiredfor herself. Then one morning as her visit nearedits end she plunged into the subject boldly andsaid, "Hannah, after this term I'm going to stayat home and let you go away. Aunt Miranda hasalways wanted you, and it's only fair you shouldhave your turn."Hannah was darning stockings, and she threadedher needle and snipped off the yarn before sheanswered, "No, thank you, Becky. Mother couldn'tdo without me, and I hate going to school. I canread and write and cipher as well as anybody now,and that's enough for me. I'd die rather than teachschool for a living. The winter'll go fast, for WillMelville is going to lend me his mother's sewingmachine, and I'm going to make white petticoatsout of the piece of muslin aunt Jane sent, and have'em just solid with tucks. Then there's going tobe a singing-school and a social circle in Temperanceafter New Year's, and I shall have a real goodtime now I'm grown up. I'm not one to be lonesome,Becky," Hannah ended with a blush; "I lovethis place."Rebecca saw that she was speaking the truth, butshe did not understand the blush till a year or twolater. Chapter 18 Rebecca Represents The Family There was another milestone; it was morethan that, it was an "event;" an eventthat made a deep impression in severalquarters and left a wake of smaller events in itstrain. This was the coming to Riverboro of theReverend Amos Burch and wife, returned missionariesfrom Syria.   The Aid Society had called its meeting for acertain Wednesday in March of the year in whichRebecca ended her Riverboro school days andbegan her studies at Wareham. It was a raw,blustering day, snow on the ground and a look inthe sky of more to follow. Both Miranda and Janehad taken cold and decided that they could notleave the house in such weather, and this deflectionfrom the path of duty worried Miranda, since shewas an officer of the society. After making thebreakfast table sufficiently uncomfortable and wishingplaintively that Jane wouldn't always insist onbeing sick at the same time she was, she decidedthat Rebecca must go to the meeting in theirstead. "You'll be better than nobody, Rebecca,"she said flatteringly; "your aunt Jane shall writean excuse from afternoon school for you; you canwear your rubber boots and come home by theway of the meetin' house. This Mr. Burch, if Iremember right, used to know your grandfatherSawyer, and stayed here once when he wascandidatin'. He'll mebbe look for us there, and youmust just go and represent the family, an' give himour respects. Be careful how you behave. Bowyour head in prayer; sing all the hymns, but nottoo loud and bold; ask after Mis' Strout's boy;tell everybody what awful colds we've got; if yousee a good chance, take your pocket handkerchiefand wipe the dust off the melodeon before themeetin' begins, and get twenty-five cents out of thesittin' room match-box in case there should be acollection."Rebecca willingly assented. Anything interestedher, even a village missionary meeting, and the ideaof representing the family was rather intoxicating.   The service was held in the Sunday-school room,and although the Rev. Mr. Burch was on the platformwhen Rebecca entered, there were only adozen persons present. Feeling a little shy andconsiderably too young for this assemblage, Rebeccasought the shelter of a friendly face, and seeingMrs. Robinson in one of the side seats near thefront, she walked up the aisle and sat beside her.   "Both my aunts had bad colds," she said softly,"and sent me to represent the family.""That's Mrs. Burch on the platform with herhusband," whispered Mrs. Robinson. "She's awfultanned up, ain't she? If you're goin' to save soulsseems like you hev' to part with your complexion.   Eudoxy Morton ain't come yet; I hope to the landshe will, or Mis' Deacon Milliken'll pitch the tuneswhere we can't reach 'em with a ladder; can'tyou pitch, afore she gits her breath and clears herthroat?"Mrs. Burch was a slim, frail little woman withdark hair, a broad low forehead, and patient mouth.   She was dressed in a well-worn black silk, andlooked so tired that Rebecca's heart went out toher.   "They're poor as Job's turkey," whispered Mrs.   Robinson; "but if you give 'em anything they'dturn right round and give it to the heathen. Hiscongregation up to Parsonsfield clubbed togetherand give him that gold watch he carries; I s'posehe'd 'a' handed that over too, only heathens alwaystell time by the sun 'n' don't need watches. Eudoxyain't comin'; now for massy's sake, Rebecca, dogit ahead of Mis' Deacon Milliken and pitch reallow."The meeting began with prayer and then theRev. Mr. Burch announced, to the tune of Mendon:--"Church of our God I arise and shine,Bright with the beams of truth divine:   Then shall thy radiance stream afar,Wide as the heathen nations are.   "Gentiles and kings thy light shall view,And shall admire and love thee too;They come, like clouds across the sky,As doves that to their windows fly.""Is there any one present who will assist us atthe instrument?" he asked unexpectedly.   Everybody looked at everybody else, and nobodymoved; then there came a voice out of a far cornersaying informally, "Rebecca, why don't you?" Itwas Mrs. Cobb. Rebecca could have played Mendonin the dark, so she went to the melodeon anddid so without any ado, no member of her familybeing present to give her self-consciousness.   The talk that ensued was much the usual sort ofthing. Mr. Burch made impassioned appeals for thespreading of the gospel, and added his entreatiesthat all who were prevented from visiting inperson the peoples who sat in darkness shouldcontribute liberally to the support of others who could.   But he did more than this. He was a pleasant,earnest speaker, and he interwove his discourse withstories of life in a foreign land,--of the manners,the customs, the speech, the point of view; evengiving glimpses of the daily round, the commontask, of his own household, the work of hisdevoted helpmate and their little group of children,all born under Syrian skies.   Rebecca sat entranced, having been given thekey of another world. Riverboro had faded; theSunday-school room, with Mrs. Robinson's red plaidshawl, and Deacon Milliken's wig, on crooked, thebare benches and torn hymn-books, the hangingtexts and maps, were no longer visible, and shesaw blue skies and burning stars, white turbansand gay colors; Mr. Burch had not said so, butperhaps there were mosques and temples and minaretsand date-palms. What stories they must know,those children born under Syrian skies! Thenshe was called upon to play "Jesus shall reignwhere'er the sun."The contribution box was passed and Mr. Burchprayed. As he opened his eyes and gave out thelast hymn he looked at the handful of people, at thescattered pennies and dimes in the contribution box,and reflected that his mission was not only to gatherfunds for the building of his church, but to keepalive, in all these remote and lonely neighborhoods,that love for the cause which was its only hope inthe years to come.   "If any of the sisters will provide entertainment,"he said, "Mrs. Burch and I will remain among youto-night and to-morrow. In that event we couldhold a parlor meeting. My wife and one of mychildren would wear the native costume, we woulddisplay some specimens of Syrian handiwork, andgive an account of our educational methods with thechildren. These informal parlor meetings, admittingof questions or conversation, are often the meansof interesting those not commonly found at churchservices so I repeat, if any member of the congregationdesires it and offers her hospitality, we willgladly stay and tell you more of the Lord's work."A pall of silence settled over the little assembly.   There was some cogent reason why every "sister"there was disinclined for company. Some had nospare room, some had a larder less well stocked thanusual, some had sickness in the family, some were"unequally yoked together with unbelievers" whodisliked strange ministers. Mrs. Burch's thin handsfingered her black silk nervously. "Would no onespeak!" thought Rebecca, her heart fluttering withsympathy. Mrs. Robinson leaned over and whisperedsignificantly, "The missionaries always usedto be entertained at the brick house; your grand-father never would let 'em sleep anywheres elsewhen he was alive." She meant this for a stab atMiss Miranda's parsimony, remembering the fourspare chambers, closed from January to December;but Rebecca thought it was intended as a suggestion.   If it had been a former custom, perhaps heraunts would want her to do the right thing; forwhat else was she representing the family? So,delighted that duty lay in so pleasant a direction,she rose from her seat and said in the pretty voiceand with the quaint manner that so separated herfrom all the other young people in the village, "Myaunts, Miss Miranda and Miss Jane Sawyer, wouldbe very happy to have you visit them at the brickhouse, as the ministers always used to do when theirfather was alive. They sent their respects by me."The "respects" might have been the freedom ofthe city, or an equestrian statue, when presented inthis way, and the aunts would have shuddered couldthey have foreseen the manner of delivery; but itwas vastly impressive to the audience, who concludedthat Mirandy Sawyer must be making herway uncommonly fast to mansions in the skies, elsewhat meant this abrupt change of heart?   Mr. Burch bowed courteously, accepted theinvitation "in the same spirit in which it was offered,"and asked Brother Milliken to lead in prayer.   If the Eternal Ear could ever tire it would haveceased long ere this to listen to Deacon Milliken,who had wafted to the throne of grace the sameprayer, with very slight variations, for forty years.   Mrs. Perkins followed; she had several petitionsat her command, good sincere ones too, but a littlecut and dried, made of scripture texts laboriouslywoven together. Rebecca wondered why she alwaysended, at the most peaceful seasons, with the form,"Do Thou be with us, God of Battles, while westrive onward like Christian soldiers marching asto war;" but everything sounded real to her to-day,she was in a devout mood, and many things Mr.   Burch had said had moved her strangely. As shelifted her head the minister looked directly at herand said, "Will our young sister close the serviceby leading us in prayer?"Every drop of blood in Rebecca's body seemed tostand still, and her heart almost stopped beating.   Mrs. Cobb's excited breathing could be heard distinctlyin the silence. There was nothing extraordinaryin Mr. Burch's request. In his journeyingsamong country congregations he was constantlyin the habit of meeting young members who had"experienced religion" and joined the church whennine or ten years old. Rebecca was now thirteen;she had played the melodeon, led the singing,delivered her aunts' invitation with an air of greatworldly wisdom, and he, concluding that she mustbe a youthful pillar of the church, called upon herwith the utmost simplicity.   Rebecca's plight was pathetic. How could sherefuse; how could she explain she was not a"member;" how could she pray before all those elderlywomen! John Rogers at the stake hardly sufferedmore than this poor child for the moment as sherose to her feet, forgetting that ladies prayedsitting, while deacons stood in prayer. Her mind wasa maze of pictures that the Rev. Mr. Burch hadflung on the screen. She knew the conventionalphraseology, of course; what New England child,accustomed to Wednesday evening meetings, doesnot? But her own secret prayers were different.   However, she began slowly and tremulously:--"Our Father who art in Heaven, . . . Thou artGod in Syria just the same as in Maine; . . . overthere to-day are blue skies and yellow stars andburning suns . . . the great trees are waving in thewarm air, while here the snow lies thick under ourfeet, . . . but no distance is too far for God to traveland so He is with us here as He is with themthere, . . . and our thoughts rise to Him `as dovesthat to their windows fly.'. . .   "We cannot all be missionaries, teaching peopleto be good, . . . some of us have not learned yethow to be good ourselves, but if thy kingdom isto come and thy will is to be done on earth as itis in heaven, everybody must try and everybodymust help, . . . those who are old and tired andthose who are young and strong. . . . The littlechildren of whom we have heard, those born underSyrian skies, have strange and interesting work todo for Thee, and some of us would like to travelin far lands and do wonderful brave things for theheathen and gently take away their idols of woodand stone. But perhaps we have to stay at homeand do what is given us to do . . . sometimes eventhings we dislike, . . . but that must be what itmeans in the hymn we sang, when it talked aboutthe sweet perfume that rises with every morningsacrifice. . . . This is the way that God teaches usto be meek and patient, and the thought that Hehas willed it so should rob us of our fears and helpus bear the years. Amen."Poor little ignorant, fantastic child! Her petitionwas simply a succession of lines from the varioushymns, and images the minister had used in hissermon, but she had her own way of recombiningand applying these things, even of using them in anew connection, so that they had a curious effectof belonging to her. The words of some peoplemight generally be written with a minus sign afterthem, the minus meaning that the personality ofthe speaker subtracted from, rather than added to,their weight; but Rebecca's words might alwayshave borne the plus sign.   The "Amen" said, she sat down, or presumedshe sat down, on what she believed to be a bench,and there was a benediction. In a moment or two,when the room ceased spinning, she went up toMrs. Burch, who kissed her affectionately and said,"My dear, how glad I am that we are going to staywith you. Will half past five be too late for us tocome? It is three now, and we have to go to thestation for our valise and for our children. We leftthem there, being uncertain whether we should goback or stop here."Rebecca said that half past five was their supperhour, and then accepted an invitation to drive homewith Mrs. Cobb. Her face was flushed and her lipquivered in a way that aunt Sarah had learned toknow, so the homeward drive was taken almost insilence. The bleak wind and aunt Sarah's quietingpresence brought her back to herself, however, andshe entered the brick house cheerily. Being toofull of news to wait in the side entry to take off herrubber boots, she carefully lifted a braided rug intothe sitting-room and stood on that while she openedher budget.   "There are your shoes warming by the fire,"said aunt Jane. "Slip them right on while you talk." Chapter 19 Deacon Isreal's Successor It was a very small meeting, aunt Miranda,"began Rebecca, "and the missionary and hiswife are lovely people, and they are cominghere to stay all night and to-morrow with you. Ihope you won't mind.""Coming here!" exclaimed Miranda, letting herknitting fall in her lap, and taking her spectaclesoff, as she always did in moments of extremeexcitement. "Did they invite themselves?""No," Rebecca answered. "I had to invite themfor you; but I thought you'd like to have suchinteresting company. It was this way"--"Stop your explainin', and tell me first whenthey'll be here. Right away?""No, not for two hours--about half past five.""Then you can explain, if you can, who gave youany authority to invite a passel of strangers to stophere over night, when you know we ain't had anycompany for twenty years, and don't intend to haveany for another twenty,--or at any rate while I'mthe head of the house.""Don't blame her, Miranda, till you've heardher story," said Jane. "It was in my mind rightalong, if we went to the meeting, some such thingmight happen, on account of Mr. Burch knowingfather.""The meeting was a small one," began Rebecca"I gave all your messages, and everybody wasdisappointed you couldn't come, for the presidentwasn't there, and Mrs. Matthews took the chair, whichwas a pity, for the seat wasn't nearly big enough forher, and she reminded me of a line in a hymn wesang, `Wide as the heathen nations are,' and shewore that kind of a beaver garden-hat that alwaysgets on one side. And Mr. Burch talked beautifullyabout the Syrian heathen, and the singing wentreal well, and there looked to be about forty centsin the basket that was passed on our side. Andthat wouldn't save even a heathen baby, would it?   Then Mr. Burch said, if any sister would offerentertainment, they would pass the night, and havea parlor meeting in Riverboro to-morrow, with Mrs.   Burch in Syrian costume, and lovely foreign thingsto show. Then he waited and waited, and nobodysaid a word. I was so mortified I didn't know whatto do. And then he repeated what he said, anexplained why he wanted to stay, and you could seehe thought it was his duty. Just then Mrs.   Robinson whispered to me and said the missionariesalways used to go to the brick house whengrandfather was alive, and that he never would let themsleep anywhere else. I didn't know you had stoppedhaving them. because no traveling ministers havebeen here, except just for a Sunday morning, sinceI came to Riverboro. So I thought I ought toinvite them, as you weren't there to do it for yourself,and you told me to represent the family.""What did you do--go up and introduceyourself as folks was goin' out?""No; I stood right up in meeting. I had to, forMr. Burch's feelings were getting hurt at nobody'sspeaking. So I said, `My aunts, Miss Miranda andMiss Jane Sawyer would be happy to have youvisit at the brick house, just as the missionariesalways did when their father was alive, and theysent their respects by me.' Then I sat down; andMr. Burch prayed for grandfather, and called him aman of God, and thanked our Heavenly Father thathis spirit was still alive in his descendants (that wasyou), and that the good old house where so manyof the brethren had been cheered and helped, andfrom which so many had gone out strengthened forthe fight, was still hospitably open for the strangerand wayfarer."Sometimes, when the heavenly bodies are injust the right conjunction, nature seems to be themost perfect art. The word or the deed comingstraight from the heart, without any thought ofeffect, seems inspired.   A certain gateway in Miranda Sawyer's soul hadbeen closed for years; not all at once had it beendone, but gradually, and without her full knowledge.   If Rebecca had plotted for days, and with the utmostcunning, she could not have effected an entranceinto that forbidden country, and now, unknown toboth of them, the gate swung on its stiff and rustyhinges, and the favoring wind of opportunity openedit wider and wider as time went on. All things hadworked together amazingly for good. The memoryof old days had been evoked, and the daily lifeof a pious and venerated father called to mind;the Sawyer name had been publicly dignified andpraised; Rebecca had comported herself as thegranddaughter of Deacon Israel Sawyer should, andshowed conclusively that she was not "all Randall,"as had been supposed. Miranda was rathermollified by and pleased with the turn of events,although she did not intend to show it, or give anybodyany reason to expect that this expression ofhospitality was to serve for a precedent on anysubsequent occasion.   "Well, I see you did only what you was obligedto do, Rebecca," she said, "and you worded yourinvitation as nice as anybody could have done. Iwish your aunt Jane and me wasn't both so worthlesswith these colds; but it only shows the goodof havin' a clean house, with every room in order,whether open or shut, and enough victuals cookedso 't you can't be surprised and belittled byanybody, whatever happens. There was half a dozenthere that might have entertained the Burches aseasy as not, if they hadn't 'a' been too meanor lazy. Why didn't your missionaries come rightalong with you?""They had to go to the station for their valiseand their children.""Are there children?" groaned Miranda.   "Yes, aunt Miranda, all born under Syrianskies.""Syrian grandmother!" ejaculated Miranda (andit was not a fact). "How many?""I didn't think to ask; but I will get two roomsready, and if there are any over I'll take 'em intomy bed," said Rebecca, secretly hoping that thiswould be the case. "Now, as you're both half sick,couldn't you trust me just once to get ready for thecompany? You can come up when I call. Willyou?""I believe I will," sighed Miranda reluctantly.   "I'll lay down side o' Jane in our bedroom and seeif I can get strength to cook supper. It's half pastthree--don't you let me lay a minute past five. Ikep' a good fire in the kitchen stove. I don't know,I'm sure, why I should have baked a pot o' beansin the middle of the week, but they'll come inhandy. Father used to say there was nothing thatwent right to the spot with returned missionarieslike pork 'n' beans 'n' brown bread. Fix up the twosouth chambers, Rebecca."Rebecca, given a free hand for the only time in herlife, dashed upstairs like a whirlwind. Every roomin the brick house was as neat as wax, and she hadonly to pull up the shades, go over the floors witha whisk broom, and dust the furniture. The auntscould hear her scurrying to and fro, beating uppillows and feather beds, flapping towels, jinglingcrockery, singing meanwhile in her clear voice:--"In vain with lavish kindnessThe gifts of God are strown;The heathen in his blindnessBows down to wood and stone."She had grown to be a handy little creature, andtasks she was capable of doing at all she did likea flash, so that when she called her aunts at fiveo'clock to pass judgment, she had accomplishedwonders. There were fresh towels on bureaus andwashstands, the beds were fair and smooth, thepitchers were filled, and soap and matches werelaid out; newspaper, kindling, and wood were in theboxes, and a large stick burned slowly in each air-tight stove. "I thought I'd better just take thechill off," she explained, "as they're right fromSyria; and that reminds me, I must look it up inthe geography before they get here."There was nothing to disapprove, so the twosisters went downstairs to make some slight changesin their dress. As they passed the parlor doorMiranda thought she heard a crackle and looked in.   The shades were up, there was a cheerful blaze inthe open stove in the front parlor, and a fire laidon the hearth in the back room. Rebecca's ownlamp, her second Christmas present from Mr. Aladdin,stood on a marble-topped table in the corner,the light that came softly through its rose-coloredshade transforming the stiff and gloomy ugliness ofthe room into a place where one could sit and loveone's neighbor.   "For massy's sake, Rebecca," called MissMiranda up the stairs, "did you think we'd betteropen the parlor?"Rebecca came out on the landing braiding herhair.   "We did on Thanksgiving and Christmas, and Ithought this was about as great an occasion," shesaid. "I moved the wax flowers off the mantelpieceso they wouldn't melt, and put the shells, the coral,and the green stuffed bird on top of the what-not,so the children wouldn't ask to play with them.   Brother Milliken's coming over to see Mr. Burchabout business, and I shouldn't wonder if Brotherand Sister Cobb happened in. Don't go downcellar, I'll be there in a minute to do the running."Miranda and Jane exchanged glances.   "Ain't she the beatin'est creetur that ever wasborn int' the world!" exclaimed Miranda; "but shecan turn off work when she's got a mind to!"At quarter past five everything was ready, andthe neighbors, those at least who were within sightof the brick house (a prominent object in thelandscape when there were no leaves on the trees),were curious almost to desperation. Shades up inboth parlors! Shades up in the two south bedrooms!   And fires--if human vision was to be reliedon--fires in about every room. If it had notbeen for the kind offices of a lady who had been atthe meeting, and who charitably called in at one ortwo houses and explained the reason of all thispreparation, there would have been no sleep in manyfamilies.   The missionary party arrived promptly, and therewere but two children, seven or eight having beenleft with the brethren in Portland, to diminishtraveling expenses. Jane escorted them all upstairs,while Miranda watched the cooking of the supper;but Rebecca promptly took the two little girls awayfrom their mother, divested them of their wraps,smoothed their hair, and brought them down to thekitchen to smell the beans.   There was a bountiful supper, and the presenceof the young people robbed it of all possible stiffness.   Aunt Jane helped clear the table and putaway the food, while Miranda entertained in theparlor; but Rebecca and the infant Burches washedthe dishes and held high carnival in the kitchen,doing only trifling damage--breaking a cup andplate that had been cracked before, emptying a silverspoon with some dishwater out of the back door(an act never permitted at the brick house), andputting coffee grounds in the sink. All evidencesof crime having been removed by Rebecca, and damagesrepaired in all possible cases, the three enteredthe parlor, where Mr. and Mrs. Cobb and Deaconand Mrs. Milliken had already appeared.   It was such a pleasant evening! Occasionallythey left the heathen in his blindness bowing downto wood and stone, not for long, but just to givethemselves (and him) time enough to breathe, andthen the Burches told strange, beautiful, marvelousthings. The two smaller children sang together,and Rebecca, at the urgent request of Mrs. Burch,seated herself at the tinkling old piano and gave"Wild roved an Indian girl, bright Alfarata" withconsiderable spirit and style.   At eight o'clock she crossed the room, handed apalm-leaf fan to her aunt Miranda, ostensibly thatshe might shade her eyes from the lamplight; butit was a piece of strategy that gave her an opportunityto whisper, "How about cookies?""Do you think it's worth while?" sibilated MissMiranda in answer.   "The Perkinses always do.""All right. You know where they be."Rebecca moved quietly towards the door, and theyoung Burches cataracted after her as if they couldnot bear a second's separation. In five minutesthey returned, the little ones bearing plates of thincaraway wafers,--hearts, diamonds, and circlesdaintily sugared, and flecked with caraway seedraised in the garden behind the house. These werea specialty of Miss Jane's, and Rebecca carried atray with six tiny crystal glasses filled with dandelionwine, for which Miss Miranda had been famous inyears gone by. Old Deacon Israel had always hadit passed, and he had bought the glasses himselfin Boston. Miranda admired them greatly, not onlyfor their beauty but because they held so little.   Before their advent the dandelion wine had been servedin sherry glasses.   As soon as these refreshments--commonlycalled a "colation" in Riverboro--had been genteellypartaken of, Rebecca looked at the clock, rosefrom her chair in the children's corner, and saidcheerfully, "Come! time for little missionaries tobe in bed!"Everybody laughed at this, the big missionariesmost of all, as the young people shook hands anddisappeared with Rebecca. Chapter 20 A Change Of Heart That niece of yours is the most remarkablegirl I have seen in years," said Mr.   Burch when the door closed.   "She seems to be turnin' out smart enough lately,but she's consid'able heedless," answered Miranda,"an' most too lively.""We must remember that it is deficient, notexcessive vitality, that makes the greatest trouble inthis world," returned Mr. Burch.   "She'd make a wonderful missionary," said Mrs.   Burch; "with her voice, and her magnetism, and hergift of language.""If I was to say which of the two she was bestadapted for, I'd say she'd make a better heathen,"remarked Miranda curtly.   "My sister don't believe in flattering children,"hastily interpolated Jane, glancing toward Mrs.   Burch, who seemed somewhat shocked, and wasabout to open her lips to ask if Rebecca was nota "professor."Mrs. Cobb had been looking for this question allthe evening and dreading some allusion to herfavorite as gifted in prayer. She had taken aninstantaneous and illogical dislike to the Rev. Mr. Burchin the afternoon because he called upon Rebeccato "lead." She had seen the pallor creep into thegirl's face, the hunted look in her eyes, and thetrembling of the lashes on her cheeks, and realizedthe ordeal through which she was passing. Herprejudice against the minister had relaxed under hisgenial talk and presence, but feeling that Mrs.   Burch was about to tread on dangerous ground, shehastily asked her if one had to change cars manytimes going from Riverboro to Syria. She felt thatit was not a particularly appropriate question, but itserved her turn.   Deacon Milliken, meantime, said to Miss Sawyer,"Mirandy, do you know who Rebecky reminds meof?""I can guess pretty well," she replied.   "Then you've noticed it too! I thought at first,seein' she favored her father so on the outside, thatshe was the same all through; but she ain't, she'slike your father, Israel Sawyer.""I don't see how you make that out," saidMiranda, thoroughly astonished.   "It struck me this afternoon when she got upto give your invitation in meetin'. It was kind o'   cur'ous, but she set in the same seat he used towhen he was leader o' the Sabbath-school. Youknow his old way of holdin' his chin up and throwin'   his head back a leetle when he got up to sayanything? Well, she done the very same thing; therewas more'n one spoke of it."The callers left before nine, and at that hour (animpossibly dissipated one for the brick house) thefamily retired for the night. As Rebecca carriedMrs. Burch's candle upstairs and found herselfthus alone with her for a minute, she said shyly,"Will you please tell Mr. Burch that I'm not amember of the church? I didn't know what to dowhen he asked me to pray this afternoon. I hadn'tthe courage to say I had never done it out loudand didn't know how. I couldn't think; and I wasso frightened I wanted to sink into the floor. Itseemed bold and wicked for me to pray before allthose old church members and make believe I wasbetter than I really was; but then again, wouldn'tGod think I was wicked not to be willing to praywhen a minister asked me to?"The candle light fell on Rebecca's flushed, sensitiveface. Mrs. Burch bent and kissed her good-night. "Don't be troubled," she said. "I'll tellMr. Burch, and I guess God will understand."Rebecca waked before six the next morning, sofull of household cares that sleep was impossible.   She went to the window and looked out; it wasstill dark, and a blustering, boisterous day.   "Aunt Jane told me she should get up at halfpast six and have breakfast at half past seven," shethought; "but I daresay they are both sick withtheir colds, and aunt Miranda will be fidgety withso many in the house. I believe I'll creep downand start things for a surprise."She put on a wadded wrapper and slippers andstole quietly down the tabooed front stairs,carefully closed the kitchen door behind her so that nonoise should waken the rest of the household, busiedherself for a half hour with the early morning routineshe knew so well, and then went back to her roomto dress before calling the children.   Contrary to expectation, Miss Jane, who theevening before felt better than Miranda, grew worsein the night, and was wholly unable to leave her bedin the morning. Miranda grumbled without ceasingduring the progress of her hasty toilet, blamingeverybody in the universe for the afflictions she hadborne and was to bear during the day; she evencastigated the Missionary Board that had sent theBurches to Syria, and gave it as her unbiased opinionthat those who went to foreign lands for the purposeof saving heathen should stay there and save'em, and not go gallivantin' all over the earth witha passel o' children, visitin' folks that didn't want'em and never asked 'em.   Jane lay anxiously and restlessly in bed with afeverish headache, wondering how her sister couldmanage without her.   Miranda walked stiffly through the dining-room,tying a shawl over her head to keep the draughtsaway, intending to start the breakfast fire and thencall Rebecca down, set her to work, and tell her,meanwhile, a few plain facts concerning the properway of representing the family at a missionarymeeting.   She opened the kitchen door and stared vaguelyabout her, wondering whether she had strayed intothe wrong house by mistake.   The shades were up, and there was a roaring firein the stove; the teakettle was singing and bubblingas it sent out a cloud of steam, and pushedover its capacious nose was a half sheet of notepaper with "Compliments of Rebecca" scrawledon it. The coffee pot was scalding, the coffee wasmeasured out in a bowl, and broken eggshells forthe settling process were standing near. The coldpotatoes and corned beef were in the wooden tray,and "Regards of Rebecca" stuck on the choppingknife. The brown loaf was out, the white loaf wasout, the toast rack was out, the doughnuts were out,the milk was skimmed, the butter had been broughtfrom the dairy.   Miranda removed the shawl from her head andsank into the kitchen rocker, ejaculating under herbreath, "She is the beatin'est child! I declare she'sall Sawyer!"The day and the evening passed off with creditand honor to everybody concerned, even to Jane,who had the discretion to recover instead of growingworse and acting as a damper to the generalenjoyment. The Burches left with lively regrets,and the little missionaries, bathed in tears, sworeeternal friendship with Rebecca, who pressed intotheir hands at parting a poem composed beforebreakfast.   TO MARY AND MARTHA BURCHBorn under Syrian skies,'Neath hotter suns than ours;The children grew and bloomed,Like little tropic flowers.   When they first saw the light,'T was in a heathen land.   Not Greenland's icy mountains,Nor India's coral strand,But some mysterious countryWhere men are nearly blackAnd where of true religion,There is a painful lack.   Then let us haste in helpingThe Missionary Board,Seek dark-skinned unbelievers,And teach them of their Lord.   Rebecca Rowena Randall.   It can readily be seen that this visit of thereturned missionaries to Riverboro was not withoutsomewhat far-reaching results. Mr. and Mrs. Burchthemselves looked back upon it as one of the rarestpleasures of their half year at home. The neighborhoodextracted considerable eager conversationfrom it; argument, rebuttal, suspicion, certainty,retrospect, and prophecy. Deacon Milliken gave tendollars towards the conversion of Syria toCongregationalism, and Mrs. Milliken had a spell ofsickness over her husband's rash generosity.   It would be pleasant to state that MirandaSawyer was an entirely changed woman afterwards, butthat is not the fact. The tree that has been gettinga twist for twenty years cannot be straightenedin the twinkling of an eye. It is certain, however,that although the difference to the outward eyewas very small, it nevertheless existed, and she wasless censorious in her treatment of Rebecca, lessharsh in her judgments, more hopeful of finalsalvation for her. This had come about largely fromher sudden vision that Rebecca, after all, inheritedsomething from the Sawyer side of the house insteadof belonging, mind, body, and soul, to the despisedRandall stock. Everything that was interesting inRebecca, and every evidence of power, capability,or talent afterwards displayed by her, Mirandaascribed to the brick house training, and this gaveher a feeling of honest pride, the pride of a masterworkman who has built success out of the mostunpromising material; but never, to the very end,even when the waning of her bodily strength relaxedher iron grip and weakened her power of repression,never once did she show that pride or make asingle demonstration of affection.   Poor misplaced, belittled Lorenzo de Medici Ran-dall, thought ridiculous and good-for-naught by hisassociates, because he resembled them in nothing!   If Riverboro could have been suddenly emptied intoa larger community, with different and more flexibleopinions, he was, perhaps, the only personage inthe entire population who would have attracted thesmallest attention. It was fortunate for his daughterthat she had been dowered with a little practicalability from her mother's family, but if Lorenzohad never done anything else in the world, he mighthave glorified himself that he had prevented Rebeccafrom being all Sawyer. Failure as he was, completeand entire, he had generously handed down to herall that was best in himself, and prudently retainedall that was unworthy. Few fathers are capable ofsuch delicate discrimination.   The brick house did not speedily become a sortof wayside inn, a place of innocent revelry andjoyous welcome; but the missionary company was anentering wedge, and Miranda allowed one spare bedto be made up "in case anything should happen,"while the crystal glasses were kept on the secondfrom the top, instead of the top shelf, in the chinacloset. Rebecca had had to stand on a chair to reachthem; now she could do it by stretching; and thisis symbolic of the way in which she unconsciouslyscaled the walls of Miss Miranda's dogmatism andprejudice.   Miranda went so far as to say that she wouldn'tmind if the Burches came every once in a while, butshe was afraid he'd spread abroad the fact of hisvisit, and missionaries' families would be underfootthe whole continual time. As a case in point, shegracefully cited the fact that if a tramp got a goodmeal at anybody's back door, 't was said that he'dleave some kind of a sign so that all other trampswould know where they were likely to receive thesame treatment.   It is to be feared that there is some truth in thishomely illustration, and Miss Miranda's dread asto her future responsibilities had some foundation,though not of the precise sort she had in mind.   The soul grows into lovely habits as easily as intougly ones, and the moment a life begins to blossominto beautiful words and deeds, that moment a newstandard of conduct is established, and your eagerneighbors look to you for a continuous manifestationof the good cheer, the sympathy, the ready wit, thecomradeship, or the inspiration, you once showedyourself capable of. Bear figs for a season or two,and the world outside the orchard is very unwillingyou should bear thistles.   The effect of the Burches' visit on Rebecca is noteasily described. Nevertheless, as she looked backupon it from the vantage ground of after years, shefelt that the moment when Mr. Burch asked her to"lead in prayer" marked an epoch in her life.   If you have ever observed how courteous andgracious and mannerly you feel when you don abeautiful new frock; if you have ever noticed thefeeling of reverence stealing over you when youclose your eyes, clasp your hands, and bow yourhead; if you have ever watched your sense ofrepulsion toward a fellow creature melt a little underthe exercise of daily politeness, you may understandhow the adoption of the outward and visible signhas some strange influence in developing the inwardand spiritual state of which it is the expression.   It is only when one has grown old and dull thatthe soul is heavy and refuses to rise. The youngsoul is ever winged; a breath stirs it to an upwardflight. Rebecca was asked to bear witness to astate of mind or feeling of whose existence she hadonly the vaguest consciousness. She obeyed, and asshe uttered words they became true in the uttering;as she voiced aspirations they settled into realities.   As "dove that to its window flies," her spiritsoared towards a great light, dimly discovered atfirst, but brighter as she came closer to it. Tobecome sensible of oneness with the Divine heartbefore any sense of separation has been felt, this issurely the most beautiful way for the child to findGod. Chapter 21 The Sky Line Widens The time so long and eagerly waited forhad come, and Rebecca was a student atWareham. Persons who had enjoyed thesocial bewilderments and advantages of foreigncourts, or had mingled freely in the intellectualcircles of great universities, might not have lookedupon Wareham as an extraordinary experience;but it was as much of an advance upon Riverboroas that village had been upon Sunnybrook Farm.   Rebecca's intention was to complete the fouryears' course in three, as it was felt by all theparties concerned that when she had attained the ripeage of seventeen she must be ready to earn herown living and help in the education of the youngerchildren. While she was wondering how this couldbe successfully accomplished, some of the othergirls were cogitating as to how they could meanderthrough the four years and come out at the endknowing no more than at the beginning. Thiswould seem a difficult, well-nigh an impossible task,but it can be achieved, and has been, at other seatsof learning than modest little Wareham.   Rebecca was to go to and fro on the cars dailyfrom September to Christmas, and then board inWareham during the three coldest months. EmmaJane's parents had always thought that a year ortwo in the Edgewood high school (three miles fromRiverboro) would serve every purpose for theirdaughter and send her into the world with as finean intellectual polish as she could well sustain.   Emma Jane had hitherto heartily concurred inthis opinion, for if there was any one thing thatshe detested it was the learning of lessons. Onebook was as bad as another in her eyes, and shecould have seen the libraries of the world sinkinginto ocean depths and have eaten her dinner cheerfullythe while; but matters assumed a differentcomplexion when she was sent to Edgewood andRebecca to Wareham. She bore it for a week--seven endless days of absence from the belovedobject, whom she could see only in the eveningswhen both were busy with their lessons. Sundayoffered an opportunity to put the matter beforeher father, who proved obdurate. He didn'tbelieve in education and thought she had full enoughalready. He never intended to keep up "blacksmithing"for good when he leased his farm andcame into Riverboro, but proposed to go back toit presently, and by that time Emma Jane wouldhave finished school and would be ready to helpher mother with the dairy work.   Another week passed. Emma Jane pined visiblyand audibly. Her color faded, and her appetite(at table) dwindled almost to nothing.   Her mother alluded plaintively to the fact thatthe Perkinses had a habit of going into declines;that she'd always feared that Emma Jane'scomplexion was too beautiful to be healthy; that somemen would be proud of having an ambitious daughter,and be glad to give her the best advantages;that she feared the daily journeys to Edgewoodwere going to be too much for her own health,and Mr. Perkins would have to hire a boy to driveEmma Jane; and finally that when a girl had sucha passion for learning as Emma Jane, it seemedalmost like wickedness to cross her will.   Mr. Perkins bore this for several days until histemper, digestion, and appetite were all sensiblyaffected; then he bowed his head to the inevitable,and Emma Jane flew, like a captive set free, to theloved one's bower. Neither did her courage flag,although it was put to terrific tests when she enteredthe academic groves of Wareham. She passed inonly two subjects, but went cheerfully into thepreparatory department with her five "conditions,"intending to let the stream of education play gentlyover her mental surfaces and not get any wetter thanshe could help. It is not possible to blink the truththat Emma Jane was dull; but a dogged, unswervingloyalty, and the gift of devoted, unselfish loving,these, after all, are talents of a sort, and maypossibly be of as much value in the world as a senseof numbers or a faculty for languages.   Wareham was a pretty village with a broad mainstreet shaded by great maples and elms. It had anapothecary, a blacksmith, a plumber, several shopsof one sort and another, two churches, and manyboarding-houses; but all its interests gathered aboutits seminary and its academy. These seats of learningwere neither better nor worse than others oftheir kind, but differed much in efficiency, accordingas the principal who chanced to be at the head wasa man of power and inspiration or the reverse.   There were boys and girls gathered from all partsof the county and state, and they were of everykind and degree as to birth, position in the world,wealth or poverty. There was an opportunity for adeal of foolish and imprudent behavior, but on thewhole surprisingly little advantage was taken of it.   Among the third and fourth year students therewas a certain amount of going to and from thetrains in couples; some carrying of heavy booksup the hill by the sterner sex for their feminineschoolmates, and occasional bursts of silliness onthe part of heedless and precocious girls, amongwhom was Huldah Meserve. She was friendlyenough with Emma Jane and Rebecca, but grewless and less intimate as time went on. She wasextremely pretty, with a profusion of auburn hair,and a few very tiny freckles, to which sheconstantly alluded, as no one could possibly detectthem without noting her porcelain skin and hercurling lashes. She had merry eyes, a somewhattoo plump figure for her years, and was popularlysupposed to have a fascinating way with her.   Riverboro being poorly furnished with beaux, sheintended to have as good a time during her fouryears at Wareham as circumstances would permit.   Her idea of pleasure was an ever-changing circleof admirers to fetch and carry for her, the morepublicly the better; incessant chaff and laughterand vivacious conversation, made eloquent andeffective by arch looks and telling glances. Shehad a habit of confiding her conquests to lessfortunate girls and bewailing the incessant havoc anddamage she was doing; a damage she avowedherself as innocent of, in intention, as any new-bornlamb. It does not take much of this sort of thingto wreck an ordinary friendship, so before longRebecca and Emma Jane sat in one end of therailway train in going to and from Riverboro, andHuldah occupied the other with her court.   Sometimes this was brilliant beyond words, includinga certain youthful Monte Cristo, who on Fridaysexpended thirty cents on a round trip ticket andtraveled from Wareham to Riverboro merely to benear Huldah; sometimes, too, the circle was reducedto the popcorn-and-peanut boy of the train, whoseemed to serve every purpose in default of bettergame.   Rebecca was in the normally unconscious statethat belonged to her years; boys were good comrades,but no more; she liked reciting in the sameclass with them, everything seemed to move better;but from vulgar and precocious flirtations she wasprotected by her ideals. There was little in thelads she had met thus far to awaken her fancy, forit habitually fed on better meat. Huldah's school-girl romances, with their wealth of commonplacedetail, were not the stuff her dreams were made of,when dreams did flutter across the sensitive plate ofher mind.   Among the teachers at Wareham was one whoinfluenced Rebecca profoundly, Miss Emily Maxwell,with whom she studied English literature andcomposition. Miss Maxwell, as the niece of oneof Maine's ex-governors and the daughter of one ofBowdoin's professors, was the most remarkablepersonality in Wareham, and that her few years ofteaching happened to be in Rebecca's time was thehappiest of all chances. There was no indecision ordelay in the establishment of their relations;Rebecca's heart flew like an arrow to its mark, andher mind, meeting its superior, settled at once intoan abiding attitude of respectful homage.   It was rumored that Miss Maxwell "wrote,"which word, when uttered in a certain tone, wasunderstood to mean not that a person had commandof penmanship, Spencerian or otherwise, but thatshe had appeared in print.   "You'll like her; she writes," whispered Huldahto Rebecca the first morning at prayers, where thefaculty sat in an imposing row on the front seats.   "She writes; and I call her stuck up."Nobody seemed possessed of exact informationwith which to satisfy the hungry mind, but there wasbelieved to be at least one person in existence whohad seen, with his own eyes, an essay by MissMaxwell in a magazine. This height of achievementmade Rebecca somewhat shy of her, but she lookedher admiration; something that most of the classcould never do with the unsatisfactory organs ofvision given them by Mother Nature. MissMaxwell's glance was always meeting a pair of eagerdark eyes; when she said anything particularlygood, she looked for approval to the corner of thesecond bench, where every shade of feeling shewished to evoke was reflected on a certain sensitiveyoung face.   One day, when the first essay of the class wasunder discussion, she asked each new pupil to bringher some composition written during the year before,that she might judge the work, and know preciselywith what material she had to deal. Rebeccalingered after the others, and approached the deskshyly.   "I haven't any compositions here, Miss Maxwell,but I can find one when I go home on Friday.   They are packed away in a box in the attic.""Carefully tied with pink and blue ribbons?"asked Miss Maxwell, with a whimsical smile.   "No," answered Rebecca, shaking her headdecidedly; "I wanted to use ribbons, because all theother girls did, and they looked so pretty, but Iused to tie my essays with twine strings onpurpose; and the one on solitude I fastened with anold shoelacing just to show it what I thought ofit!""Solitude!" laughed Miss Maxwell, raising hereyebrows. "Did you choose your own subject?""No; Miss Dearborn thought we were not oldenough to find good ones.""What were some of the others?""Fireside Reveries, Grant as a Soldier, Reflectionson the Life of P. T. Barnum, Buried Cities;I can't remember any more now. They were all bad,and I can't bear to show them; I can write poetryeasier and better, Miss Maxwell.""Poetry!" she exclaimed. "Did Miss Dearbornrequire you to do it?""Oh, no; I always did it even at the farm. ShallI bring all I have? It isn't much."Rebecca took the blank-book in which she keptcopies of her effusions and left it at Miss Maxwell'sdoor, hoping that she might be asked in and thusobtain a private interview; but a servant answeredher ring, and she could only walk away, disappointed.   A few days afterward she saw the black-coveredbook on Miss Maxwell's desk and knew that thedreaded moment of criticism had come, so she wasnot surprised to be asked to remain after class.   The room was quiet; the red leaves rustled inthe breeze and flew in at the open window, bearingthe first compliments of the season. Miss Maxwellcame and sat by Rebecca's side on the bench.   "Did you think these were good?" she asked,giving her the verses.   "Not so very," confessed Rebecca; "but it'shard to tell all by yourself. The Perkinses and theCobbs always said they were wonderful, but whenMrs. Cobb told me she thought they were betterthan Mr. Longfellow's I was worried, because Iknew that couldn't be true."This ingenuous remark confirmed Miss Maxwell'sopinion of Rebecca as a girl who could hear thetruth and profit by it.   "Well, my child," she said smilingly, "yourfriends were wrong and you were right; judged bythe proper tests, they are pretty bad.""Then I must give up all hope of ever being awriter!" sighed Rebecca, who was tasting thebitterness of hemlock and wondering if she couldkeep the tears back until the interview was over.   "Don't go so fast," interrupted Miss Maxwell.   "Though they don't amount to anything as poetry,they show a good deal of promise in certain direc-tions. You almost never make a mistake in rhymeor metre, and this shows you have a natural senseof what is right; a `sense of form,' poets wouldcall it. When you grow older, have a little moreexperience,--in fact, when you have somethingto say, I think you may write very good verses.   Poetry needs knowledge and vision, experience andimagination, Rebecca. You have not the first threeyet, but I rather think you have a touch of the last.""Must I never try any more poetry, not evento amuse myself?""Certainly you may; it will only help you towrite better prose. Now for the first composition.   I am going to ask all the new students to write aletter giving some description of the town and ahint of the school life.""Shall I have to be myself?" asked Rebecca.   "What do you mean?""A letter from Rebecca Randall to her sisterHannah at Sunnybrook Farm, or to her aunt Janeat the brick house, Riverboro, is so dull and stupid,if it is a real letter; but if I could make believe I wasa different girl altogether, and write to somebodywho would be sure to understand everything I said,I could make it nicer.""Very well; I think that's a delightful plan,"said Miss Maxwell; "and whom will you supposeyourself to be?""I like heiresses very much," replied Rebeccacontemplatively. "Of course I never saw one, butinteresting things are always happening toheiresses, especially to the golden-haired kind. Myheiress wouldn't be vain and haughty like thewicked sisters in Cinderella; she would be nobleand generous. She would give up a grand schoolin Boston because she wanted to come here whereher father lived when he was a boy, long before hemade his fortune. The father is dead now, and shehas a guardian, the best and kindest man in theworld; he is rather old of course, and sometimesvery quiet and grave, but sometimes when he ishappy, he is full of fun, and then Evelyn is not afraidof him. Yes, the girl shall be called EvelynAbercrombie, and her guardian's name shall be Mr. AdamLadd.""Do you know Mr. Ladd?" asked Miss Maxwellin surprise.   "Yes, he's my very best friend," cried Rebeccadelightedly. "Do you know him too?""Oh, yes; he is a trustee of these schools, youknow, and often comes here. But if I let you`suppose' any more, you will tell me your whole letterand then I shall lose a pleasant surprise."What Rebecca thought of Miss Maxwell wealready know; how the teacher regarded the pupilmay be gathered from the following letter writtentwo or three months later.   Wareham, December 1stMy Dear Father,--As you well know, I havenot always been an enthusiast on the subject ofteaching. The task of cramming knowledge intothese self-sufficient, inefficient youngsters of bothsexes discourages me at times. The more stupid theyare, the less they are aware of it. If my departmentwere geography or mathematics, I believe I shouldfeel that I was accomplishing something, for in thosebranches application and industry work wonders;but in English literature and composition one yearnsfor brains, for appreciation, for imagination! Monthafter month I toil on, opening oyster after oyster,but seldom finding a pearl. Fancy my joy this termwhen, without any violent effort at shell-splitting,I came upon a rare pearl; a black one, but of satinskin and beautiful lustre! Her name is Rebecca,and she looks not unlike Rebekah at the Well in ourfamily Bible; her hair and eyes being so dark asto suggest a strain of Italian or Spanish blood. Sheis nobody in particular. Man has done nothing forher; she has no family to speak of, no money, noeducation worthy the name, has had no advantagesof any sort; but Dame Nature flung herself intothe breach and said:--"This child I to myself will take;She shall be mine and I will makeA Lady of my own."Blessed Wordsworth! How he makes us understand!   And the pearl never heard of him until now!   Think of reading Lucy to a class, and when youfinish, seeing a fourteen-year-old pair of lipsquivering with delight, and a pair of eyes brimming withcomprehending tears!   You poor darling! You, too, know thediscouragement of sowing lovely seed in rocky earth,in sand, in water, and (it almost seems sometimes)in mud; knowing that if anything comes up at allit will be some poor starveling plant. Fancy the joyof finding a real mind; of dropping seed in a soilso warm, so fertile, that one knows there are sureto be foliage, blossoms, and fruit all in good time!   I wish I were not so impatient and so greedy ofresults! I am not fit to be a teacher; no one iswho is so scornful of stupidity as I am. . . . Thepearl writes quaint countrified little verses,doggerel they are; but somehow or other she alwayscontrives to put in one line, one thought, one image,that shows you she is, quite unconsciously to herself,in possession of the secret. . . . Good-by; I'll bringRebecca home with me some Friday, and let youand mother see her for yourselves.   Your affectionate daughter,Emily. Chapter 22 Clover Blossoms And Sunflowers How d' ye do, girls?" said Huldah Meserve,peeping in at the door. "Can youstop studying a minute and show me yourroom? Say, I've just been down to the storeand bought me these gloves, for I was bound Iwouldn't wear mittens this winter; they'resimply too countrified. It's your first year here, andyou're younger than I am, so I s'pose you don'tmind, but I simply suffer if I don't keep up somekind of style. Say, your room is simply too cute forwords! I don't believe any of the others can beginto compare with it! I don't know what gives it thatsimply gorgeous look, whether it's the full curtains,or that elegant screen, or Rebecca's lamp; but youcertainly do have a faculty for fixing up. I like apretty room too, but I never have a minute toattend to mine; I'm always so busy on my clothes thathalf the time I don't get my bed made up till noon;and after all, having no callers but the girls, it don'tmake much difference. When I graduate, I'm goingto fix up our parlor at home so it'll be simply regal.   I've learned decalcomania, and after I take up lustrepainting I shall have it simply stiff with drapes andtidies and placques and sofa pillows, and make mo-ther let me have a fire, and receive my friends thereevenings. May I dry my feet at your register? Ican't bear to wear rubbers unless the mud or theslush is simply knee-deep, they make your feet lookso awfully big. I had such a fuss getting this pairof French-heeled boots that I don't intend to spoilthe looks of them with rubbers any oftener than Ican help. I believe boys notice feet quicker thananything. Elmer Webster stepped on one of mineyesterday when I accidentally had it out in theaisle, and when he apologized after class, he said hewasn't so much to blame, for the foot was so littlehe really couldn't see it! Isn't he perfectly great?   Of course that's only his way of talking, for afterall I only wear a number two, but these Frenchheels and pointed toes do certainly make your footlook smaller, and it's always said a high instep helps,too. I used to think mine was almost a deformity,but they say it's a great beauty. Just put your feetbeside mine, girls, and look at the difference; notthat I care much, but just for fun.""My feet are very comfortable where they are,"responded Rebecca dryly. "I can't stop to measureinsteps on algebra days; I've noticed your habitof keeping a foot in the aisle ever since you hadthose new shoes, so I don't wonder it was steppedon.""Perhaps I am a little mite conscious of them,because they're not so very comfortable at first, tillyou get them broken in. Say, haven't you got alot of new things?""Our Christmas presents, you mean," said EmmaJane. "The pillow-cases are from Mrs. Cobb, therug from cousin Mary in North Riverboro, thescrap-basket from Living and Dick. We gave eachother the bureau and cushion covers, and the screenis mine from Mr. Ladd.""Well, you were lucky when you met him!   Gracious! I wish I could meet somebody like that.   The way he keeps it up, too! It just hides yourbed, doesn't it, and I always say that a bed takesthe style off any room--specially when it's notmade up; though you have an alcove, and it's theonly one in the whole building. I don't see howyou managed to get this good room when you'resuch new scholars," she finished discontentedly.   "We shouldn't have, except that Ruth Berryhad to go away suddenly on account of her father'sdeath. This room was empty, and Miss Maxwellasked if we might have it," returned Emma Jane.   "The great and only Max is more stiff andstandoffish than ever this year," said Huldah. "I'vesimply given up trying to please her, for there'sno justice in her; she is good to her favorites, butshe doesn't pay the least attention to anybody else,except to make sarcastic speeches about thingsthat are none of her business. I wanted to tell heryesterday it was her place to teach me Latin, notmanners.""I wish you wouldn't talk against Miss Maxwellto me," said Rebecca hotly. "You know how Ifeel.""I know; but I can't understand how you canabide her.""I not only abide, I love her!" exclaimedRebecca. "I wouldn't let the sun shine too hot onher, or the wind blow too cold. I'd like to put amarble platform in her class-room and have her sitin a velvet chair behind a golden table!""Well, don't have a fit!--because she can sitwhere she likes for all of me; I've got somethingbetter to think of," and Huldah tossed her head.   "Isn't this your study hour?" asked EmmaJane, to stop possible discussion.   "Yes, but I lost my Latin grammar yesterday;I left it in the hall half an hour while I was havinga regular scene with Herbert Dunn. I haven'tspoken to him for a week and gave him back hisclass pin. He was simply furious. Then when Icame back to the hall, the book was gone. I hadto go down town for my gloves and to the principal'soffice to see if the grammar had been handedin, and that's the reason I'm so fine."Huldah was wearing a woolen dress that hadonce been gray, but had been dyed a brilliant blue.   She had added three rows of white braid and largewhite pearl buttons to her gray jacket, in order tomake it a little more "dressy." Her gray felt hathad a white feather on it, and a white tissue veilwith large black dots made her delicate skin lookbrilliant. Rebecca thought how lovely the knot ofred hair looked under the hat behind, and how thecolor of the front had been dulled by incessantfrizzing with curling irons. Her open jacketdisclosed a galaxy of souvenirs pinned to thebackground of bright blue,--a small American flag, abutton of the Wareham Rowing Club, and one ortwo society pins. These decorations proved herpopularity in very much the same way as do thecotillion favors hanging on the bedroom walls ofthe fashionable belle. She had been pinning andunpinning, arranging and disarranging her veilever since she entered the room, in the hope thatthe girls would ask her whose ring she was wearingthis week; but although both had noticed the newornament instantly, wild horses could not havedrawn the question from them; her desire to beasked was too obvious. With her gay plumage,her "nods and becks and wreathed smiles," and hercheerful cackle, Huldah closely resembled theparrot in Wordsworth's poem:--"Arch, volatile, a sportive bird,By social glee inspired;Ambitious to be seen or heard,And pleased to be admired!""Mr. Morrison thinks the grammar will bereturned, and lent me another," Huldah continued.   "He was rather snippy about my leaving a book inthe hall. There was a perfectly elegant gentlemanin the office, a stranger to me. I wish he was a newteacher, but there's no such luck. He was tooyoung to be the father of any of the girls, and tooold to be a brother, but he was handsome as apicture and had on an awful stylish suit of clothes.   He looked at me about every minute I was in theroom. It made me so embarrassed I couldn't hardlyanswer Mr. Morrison's questions straight.""You'll have to wear a mask pretty soon, ifyou're going to have any comfort, Huldah," saidRebecca. "Did he offer to lend you his class pin,or has it been so long since he graduated that he'sleft off wearing it? And tell us now whether theprincipal asked for a lock of your hair to put in hiswatch?"This was all said merrily and laughingly, butthere were times when Huldah could scarcely makeup her mind whether Rebecca was trying to bewitty, or whether she was jealous; but shegenerally decided it was merely the latter feeling,rather natural in a girl who had little attention.   "He wore no jewelry but a cameo scarf pin anda perfectly gorgeous ring,--a queer kind of onethat wound round and round his finger. Oh dear,I must run! Where has the hour gone? There'sthe study bell!"Rebecca had pricked up her ears at Huldah'sspeech. She remembered a certain strange ring,and it belonged to the only person in the world (saveMiss Maxwell) who appealed to her imagination,--Mr. Aladdin. Her feeling for him, and that of EmmaJane, was a mixture of romantic and reverent admirationfor the man himself and the liveliest gratitudefor his beautiful gifts. Since they first met himnot a Christmas had gone by without some remembrancefor them both; remembrances chosen withthe rarest taste and forethought. Emma Jane hadseen him only twice, but he had called several timesat the brick house, and Rebecca had learned toknow him better. It was she, too, who always wrotethe notes of acknowledgment and thanks, takinginfinite pains to make Emma Jane's quite differentfrom her own. Sometimes he had written fromBoston and asked her the news of Riverboro, andshe had sent him pages of quaint and childlike gossip,interspersed, on two occasions, with poetry,which he read and reread with infinite relish. IfHuldah's stranger should be Mr. Aladdin, would hecome to see her, and could she and Emma Janeshow him their beautiful room with so many of hisgifts in evidence?   When the girls had established themselves inWareham as real boarding pupils, it seemed tothem existence was as full of joy as it well couldhold. This first winter was, in fact, the mosttranquilly happy of Rebecca's school life,--a winterlong to be looked back upon. She and EmmaJane were room-mates, and had put their modestpossessions together to make their surroundingspretty and homelike. The room had, to begin with,a cheerful red ingrain carpet and a set of maplefurniture. As to the rest, Rebecca had furnishedthe ideas and Emma Jane the materials and labor,a method of dividing responsibilities that seemedto suit the circumstances admirably. Mrs. Perkins'sfather had been a storekeeper, and on his deathhad left the goods of which he was possessed tohis married daughter. The molasses, vinegar, andkerosene had lasted the family for five years, andthe Perkins attic was still a treasure-house ofginghams, cottons, and "Yankee notions." So atRebecca's instigation Mrs. Perkins had made fullcurtains and lambrequins of unbleached muslin,which she had trimmed and looped back withbands of Turkey red cotton. There were two tablecovers to match, and each of the girls had herstudy corner. Rebecca, after much coaxing, hadbeen allowed to bring over her precious lamp,which would have given a luxurious air to anyapartment, and when Mr. Aladdin's last Christmaspresents were added,--the Japanese screen forEmma Jane and the little shelf of English Poetsfor Rebecca,--they declared that it was all quiteas much fun as being married and going to housekeeping.   The day of Huldah's call was Friday, and onFridays from three to half past four Rebecca wasfree to take a pleasure to which she looked forwardthe entire week. She always ran down the snowypath through the pine woods at the back of theseminary, and coming out on a quiet village street,went directly to the large white house where MissMaxwell lived. The maid-of-all-work answered herknock; she took off her hat and cape and hungthem in the hall, put her rubber shoes andumbrella carefully in the corner, and then opened thedoor of paradise. Miss Maxwell's sitting-room waslined on two sides with bookshelves, and Rebeccawas allowed to sit before the fire and browseamong the books to her heart's delight for an houror more. Then Miss Maxwell would come backfrom her class, and there would be a precious halfhour of chat before Rebecca had to meet EmmaJane at the station and take the train for Riverboro,where her Saturdays and Sundays werespent, and where she was washed, ironed, mended,and examined, approved and reproved, warned andadvised in quite sufficient quantity to last her thesucceeding week.   On this Friday she buried her face in the bloominggeraniums on Miss Maxwell's plant-stand, selectedRomola from one of the bookcases, and sankinto a seat by the window with a sigh of infinitecontent, She glanced at the clock now and then,remembering the day on which she had been soimmersed in David Copperfield that the Riverborotrain had no place in her mind. The distractedEmma Jane had refused to leave without her, andhad run from the station to look for her at MissMaxwell's. There was but one later train, and thatwent only to a place three miles the other sideof Riverboro, so that the two girls appeared at theirrespective homes long after dark, having had aweary walk in the snow.   When she had read for half an hour she glancedout of the window and saw two figures issuing fromthe path through the woods. The knot of brighthair and the coquettish hat could belong to butone person; and her companion, as the coupleapproached, proved to be none other than Mr. Aladdin.   Huldah was lifting her skirts daintily andpicking safe stepping-places for the high-heeledshoes, her cheeks glowing, her eyes sparkling underthe black and white veil.   Rebecca slipped from her post by the window tothe rug before the bright fire and leaned her headon the seat of the great easy-chair. She was frightenedat the storm in her heart; at the suddennesswith which it had come on, as well as at the strangenessof an entirely new sensation. She felt all atonce as if she could not bear to give up her shareof Mr. Aladdin's friendship to Huldah: Huldah sobright, saucy, and pretty; so gay and ready, andsuch good company! She had always joyfullyadmitted Emma Jane into the precious partnership,but perhaps unconsciously to herself she hadrealized that Emma Jane had never held anything buta secondary place in Mr. Aladdin's regard; yet whowas she herself, after all, that she could hope to befirst?   Suddenly the door opened softly and somebodylooked in, somebody who said: "Miss Maxwelltold me I should find Miss Rebecca Randall here."Rebecca started at the sound and sprang to herfeet, saying joyfully, "Mr. Aladdin! Oh! I knewyou were in Wareham, and I was afraid youwouldn't have time to come and see us.""Who is `us'? The aunts are not here, arethey? Oh, you mean the rich blacksmith's daughter,whose name I can never remember. Is shehere?""Yes, and my room-mate," answered Rebecca,who thought her own knell of doom had sounded,if he had forgotten Emma Jane's name.   The light in the room grew softer, the firecrackled cheerily, and they talked of many things,until the old sweet sense of friendliness andfamiliarity crept back into Rebecca's heart. Adamhad not seen her for several months, and there wasmuch to be learned about school matters as viewedfrom her own standpoint; he had already inquiredconcerning her progress from Mr. Morrison.   "Well, little Miss Rebecca," he said, rousinghimself at length, "I must be thinking of my driveto Portland. There is a meeting of railwaydirectors there to-morrow, and I always take thisopportunity of visiting the school and giving myvaluable advice concerning its affairs, educationaland financial.""It seems funny for you to be a school trustee,"said Rebecca contemplatively. "I can't seem tomake it fit.""You are a remarkably wise young person andI quite agree with you," he answered; "the factis," he added soberly, "I accepted the trusteeshipin memory of my poor little mother, whose lasthappy years were spent here.""That was a long time ago!""Let me see, I am thirty-two; only thirty-two,despite an occasional gray hair. My mother wasmarried a month after she graduated, and she livedonly until I was ten; yes, it is a long way back tomy mother's time here, though the school was fifteenor twenty years old then, I believe. Wouldyou like to see my mother, Miss Rebecca?"The girl took the leather case gently and openedit to find an innocent, pink-and-white daisy of aface, so confiding, so sensitive, that it went straightto the heart. It made Rebecca feel old, experienced,and maternal. She longed on the instant to comfortand strengthen such a tender young thing.   "Oh, what a sweet, sweet, flowery face!" shewhispered softly.   "The flower had to bear all sorts of storms," saidAdam gravely. "The bitter weather of the worldbent its slender stalk, bowed its head, and draggedit to the earth. I was only a child and could donothing to protect and nourish it, and there was noone else to stand between it and trouble. Now Ihave success and money and power, all that wouldhave kept her alive and happy, and it is too late.   She died for lack of love and care, nursing andcherishing, and I can never forget it. All that hascome to me seems now and then so useless, since Icannot share it with her!"This was a new Mr. Aladdin, and Rebecca's heartgave a throb of sympathy and comprehension. Thisexplained the tired look in his eyes, the look thatpeeped out now and then, under all his gay speechand laughter.   "I'm so glad I know," she said, "and so glad Icould see her just as she was when she tied thatwhite muslin hat under her chin and saw her yellowcurls and her sky-blue eyes in the glass. Mustn'tshe have been happy! I wish she could have beenkept so, and had lived to see you grow up strongand good. My mother is always sad and busy, butonce when she looked at John I heard her say, `Hemakes up for everything.' That's what your motherwould have thought about you if she had lived,and perhaps she does as it is.""You are a comforting little person, Rebecca,"said Adam, rising from his chair.   As Rebecca rose, the tears still trembling on herlashes, he looked at her suddenly as with new vision.   "Good-by!" he said, taking her slim brownhands in his, adding, as if he saw her for the firsttime, "Why, little Rose-Red-Snow-White is makingway for a new girl! Burning the midnight oil anddoing four years' work in three is supposed to dullthe eye and blanch the cheek, yet Rebecca's eyesare bright and she has a rosy color! Her long braidsare looped one on the other so that they make ablack letter U behind, and they are tied with grandbows at the top! She is so tall that she reachesalmost to my shoulder. This will never do in theworld! How will Mr. Aladdin get on without hiscomforting little friend! He doesn't like grown-upyoung ladies in long trains and wonderful fineclothes; they frighten and bore him!""Oh, Mr. Aladdin!" cried Rebecca eagerly,taking his jest quite seriously; "I am not fifteenyet, and it will be three years before I'm a younglady; please don't give me up until you have to!""I won't; I promise you that," said Adam.   "Rebecca," he continued, after a moment's pause,"who is that young girl with a lot of pretty redhair and very citified manners? She escorted medown the hill; do you know whom I mean?""It must be Huldah Meserve; she is from Riverboro."Adam put a finger under Rebecca's chin andlooked into her eyes; eyes as soft, as clear, asunconscious, and childlike as they had been when shewas ten. He remembered the other pair of challengingblue ones that had darted coquettish glancesthrough half-dropped lids, shot arrowy beams fromunder archly lifted brows, and said gravely, "Don'tform yourself on her, Rebecca; clover blossomsthat grow in the fields beside Sunnybrook mustn'tbe tied in the same bouquet with gaudy sunflowers;they are too sweet and fragrant and wholesome." Chapter 23 The Hill DIfficulty The first happy year at Wareham, withits widened sky-line, its larger vision, itsgreater opportunity, was over and gone.   Rebecca had studied during the summer vacation,and had passed, on her return in the autumn,certain examinations which would enable her, if shecarried out the same programme the next season,to complete the course in three instead of fouryears. She came off with no flying colors,--thatwould have been impossible in consideration of herinadequate training; but she did wonderfully wellin some of the required subjects, and so brilliantlyin others that the average was respectable. Shewould never have been a remarkable scholar underany circumstances, perhaps, and she was easily out-stripped in mathematics and the natural sciencesby a dozen girls, but in some inexplicable way shebecame, as the months went on, the foremost figurein the school. When she had entirely forgotten thefacts which would enable her to answer a questionfully and conclusively, she commonly had someoriginal theory to expound; it was not alwayscorrect, but it was generally unique and sometimesamusing. She was only fair in Latin or Frenchgrammar, but when it came to translation, her freedom,her choice of words, and her sympatheticunderstanding of the spirit of the text made her thedelight of her teachers and the despair of her rivals.   "She can be perfectly ignorant of a subject,'   said Miss Maxwell to Adam Ladd, "but entirelyintelligent the moment she has a clue. Most of theother girls are full of information and as stupid assheep."Rebecca's gifts had not been discovered save bythe few, during the first year, when she was adjustingherself quietly to the situation. She was distinctlyone of the poorer girls; she had no finedresses to attract attention, no visitors, no friendsin the town. She had more study hours, and lesstime, therefore, for the companionship of other girls,gladly as she would have welcomed the gayety ofthat side of school life. Still, water will find its ownlevel in some way, and by the spring of the secondyear she had naturally settled into the same sort ofleadership which had been hers in the smallercommunity of Riverboro. She was unanimously electedassistant editor of the Wareham School Pilot, beingthe first girl to assume that enviable, though somewhatarduous and thankless position, and when hermaiden number went to the Cobbs, uncle Jerry andaunt Sarah could hardly eat or sleep for pride.   "She'll always get votes," said Huldah Meserve,when discussing the election, "for whether sheknows anything or not, she looks as if she did, andwhether she's capable of filling an office or not, shelooks as if she was. I only wish I was tall and darkand had the gift of making people believe I wasgreat things, like Rebecca Randall. There's onething: though the boys call her handsome, younotice they don't trouble her with much attention."It was a fact that Rebecca's attitude towards theopposite sex was still somewhat indifferent andoblivious, even for fifteen and a half! No one couldlook at her and doubt that she had potentialities ofattraction latent within her somewhere, but that sideof her nature was happily biding its time. A humanbeing is capable only of a certain amount of activityat a given moment, and it will inevitably satisfyfirst its most pressing needs, its most ardent desires,its chief ambitions. Rebecca was full of smallanxieties and fears, for matters were not going wellat the brick house and were anything but hopefulat the home farm. She was overbusy and overtaxed,and her thoughts were naturally drawn towards thedifficult problems of daily living.   It had seemed to her during the autumn andwinter of that year as if her aunt Miranda hadnever been, save at the very first, so censorious andso fault-finding. One Saturday Rebecca ran upstairsand, bursting into a flood of tears, exclaimed,"Aunt Jane, it seems as if I never could stand hercontinual scoldings. Nothing I can do suits auntMiranda; she's just said it will take me my wholelife to get the Randall out of me, and I'm notconvinced that I want it all out, so there we are!"Aunt Jane, never demonstrative, cried withRebecca as she attempted to soothe her.   "You must be patient," she said, wiping first herown eyes and then Rebecca's. "I haven't told you,for it isn't fair you should be troubled when you'restudying so hard, but your aunt Miranda isn't well.   One Monday morning about a month ago, she hada kind of faint spell; it wasn't bad, but the doctoris afraid it was a shock, and if so, it's the beginningof the end. Seems to me she's failing right along,and that's what makes her so fretful and easy vexed.   She has other troubles too, that you don't knowanything about, and if you're not kind to your auntMiranda now, child, you'll be dreadful sorry sometime."All the temper faded from Rebecca's face, andshe stopped crying to say penitently, "Oh! the poordear thing! I won't mind a bit what she says now.   She's just asked me for some milk toast and Iwas dreading to take it to her, but this will makeeverything different. Don't worry yet, aunt Jane,for perhaps it won't be as bad as you think."So when she carried the toast to her aunt a littlelater, it was in the best gilt-edged china bowl, witha fringed napkin on the tray and a sprig of geraniumlying across the salt cellar.   "Now, aunt Miranda," she said cheerily, "I expectyou to smack your lips and say this is good; it's notRandall, but Sawyer milk toast.""You've tried all kinds on me, one time an'   another," Miranda answered. "This tastes realkind o' good; but I wish you hadn't wasted thatnice geranium.""You can't tell what's wasted," said Rebeccaphilosophically; "perhaps that geranium has beenhoping this long time it could brighten somebody'ssupper, so don't disappoint it by making believe youdon't like it. I've seen geraniums cry,--in the veryearly morning!"The mysterious trouble to which Jane had alludedwas a very real one, but it was held in profoundsecrecy. Twenty-five hundred dollars of the smallSawyer property had been invested in the businessof a friend of their father's, and had returned thema regular annual income of a hundred dollars. Thefamily friend had been dead for some five years,but his son had succeeded to his interests and allwent on as formerly. Suddenly there came a lettersaying that the firm had gone into bankruptcy,that the business had been completely wrecked, andthat the Sawyer money had been swept away witheverything else.   The loss of one hundred dollars a year is a verytrifling matter, but it made all the difference betweencomfort and self-denial to the two old spinstersTheir manner of life had been so rigid and carefulthat it was difficult to economize any further, and theblow had fallen just when it was most inconvenient,for Rebecca's school and boarding expenses, smallas they were, had to be paid promptly and in cash.   "Can we possibly go on doing it? Shan't wehave to give up and tell her why?" asked Janetearfully of the elder sister.   "We have put our hand to the plough, and wecan't turn back," answered Miranda in her grimmesttone; "we've taken her away from her motherand offered her an education, and we've got to keepour word. She's Aurelia's only hope for years tocome, to my way o' thinkin'. Hannah's beau takesall her time 'n' thought, and when she gits ahusband her mother'll be out o' sight and out o' mind.   John, instead of farmin', thinks he must be a doctor,--as if folks wasn't gettin' unhealthy enoughthese days, without turnin' out more young doctorsto help 'em into their graves. No, Jane; we'll skimp'n' do without, 'n' plan to git along on our interestmoney somehow, but we won't break into our principal,whatever happens.""Breaking into the principal" was, in the mindsof most thrifty New England women, a sin onlysecond to arson, theft, or murder; and, though therule was occasionally carried too far for commonsense,--as in this case, where two elderly womenof sixty might reasonably have drawn somethingfrom their little hoard in time of special need,--itdoubtless wrought more of good than evil in thecommunity.   Rebecca, who knew nothing of their businessaffairs, merely saw her aunts grow more and moresaving, pinching here and there, cutting off thisand that relentlessly. Less meat and fish werebought; the woman who had lately been comingtwo days a week for washing, ironing, and scrubbingwas dismissed; the old bonnets of the seasonbefore were brushed up and retrimmed; there wereno drives to Moderation or trips to Portland. Economywas carried to its very extreme; but thoughMiranda was well-nigh as gloomy and uncompromisingin her manner and conversation as a woman couldwell be, she at least never twitted her niece of beinga burden; so Rebecca's share of the Sawyers'   misfortunes consisted only in wearing her old dresses,hats, and jackets, without any apparent hope of achange.   There was, however, no concealing the state ofthings at Sunnybrook, where chapters of accidentshad unfolded themselves in a sort of serial story thathad run through the year. The potato crop hadfailed; there were no apples to speak of; the hayhad been poor; Aurelia had turns of dizziness inher head; Mark had broken his ankle. As this washis fourth offense, Miranda inquired how manybones there were in the human body, "so 't they'dknow when Mark got through breakin' 'em." Thetime for paying the interest on the mortgage, thatincubus that had crushed all the joy out of theRandall household, had come and gone, and therewas no possibility, for the first time in fourteenyears, of paying the required forty-eight dollars.   The only bright spot in the horizon was Hannah'sengagement to Will Melville,--a young farmerwhose land joined Sunnybrook, who had a goodhouse, was alone in the world, and his own master.   Hannah was so satisfied with her own unexpectedlyradiant prospects that she hardly realized her mother'sanxieties; for there are natures which flourish,in adversity, and deteriorate when exposed to suddenprosperity. She had made a visit of a week atthe brick house; and Miranda's impression, conveyedin privacy to Jane, was that Hannah was closeas the bark of a tree, and consid'able selfish too;that when she'd clim' as fur as she could in theworld, she'd kick the ladder out from under her,everlastin' quick; that, on being sounded as to herability to be of use to the younger children in thefuture, she said she guessed she'd done her sharea'ready, and she wan't goin' to burden Will withher poor relations. "She's Susan Randall throughand through!" ejaculated Miranda. "I was glad tosee her face turned towards Temperance. If thatmortgage is ever cleared from the farm, 't won't beHannah that'll do it; it'll be Rebecca or me!" Chapter 24 Aladdin Rubs His Lamp Your esteemed contribution entitled WarehamWildflowers has been accepted forThe Pilot, Miss Perkins," said Rebecca,entering the room where Emma Jane was darningthe firm's stockings. "I stayed to tea with MissMaxwell, but came home early to tell you.""You are joking, Becky!" faltered Emma Jane,looking up from her work.   "Not a bit; the senior editor read it and thoughtit highly instructive; it appears in the next issue.""Not in the same number with your poem aboutthe golden gates that close behind us when we leaveschool?"--and Emma Jane held her breath as sheawaited the reply.   "Even so, Miss Perkins.""Rebecca," said Emma Jane, with the nearestapproach to tragedy that her nature would permit,"I don't know as I shall be able to bear it, and ifanything happens to me, I ask you solemnly to burythat number of The Pilot with me."Rebecca did not seem to think this the expressionof an exaggerated state of feeling, inasmuch asshe replied, "I know; that's just the way it seemedto me at first, and even now, whenever I'm aloneand take out the Pilot back numbers to read overmy contributions, I almost burst with pleasure; andit's not that they are good either, for they lookworse to me every time I read them.""If you would only live with me in some littlehouse when we get older," mused Emma Jane, aswith her darning needle poised in air she regardedthe opposite wall dreamily, "I would do the houseworkand cooking, and copy all your poems andstories, and take them to the post-office, and youneedn't do anything but write. It would beperfectly elergant!""I'd like nothing better, if I hadn't promised tokeep house for John," replied Rebecca.   "He won't have a house for a good many years,will he?""No," sighed Rebecca ruefully, flinging herselfdown by the table and resting her head on her hand.   "Not unless we can contrive to pay off that detestablemortgage. The day grows farther off insteadof nearer now that we haven't paid the interestthis year."She pulled a piece of paper towards her, andscribbling idly on it read aloud in a moment or two:--"Will you pay a little faster?" said the mortgage to the farm;"I confess I'm very tired of this place.""The weariness is mutual," Rebecca Randall cried;"I would I'd never gazed upon your face!""A note has a `face,'" observed Emma Jane, whowas gifted in arithmetic. "I didn't know that amortgage had.""Our mortgage has," said Rebecca revengefully.   "I should know him if I met him in the dark. Waitand I'll draw him for you. It will be good for youto know how he looks, and then when you have ahusband and seven children, you won't allow him tocome anywhere within a mile of your farm."The sketch when completed was of a sort to beshunned by a timid person on the verge of slumber.   There was a tiny house on the right, and a weepingfamily gathered in front of it. The mortgage wasdepicted as a cross between a fiend and an ogre,and held an axe uplifted in his red right hand. Afigure with streaming black locks was staying theblow, and this, Rebecca explained complacently, wasintended as a likeness of herself, though she wasrather vague as to the method she should use inattaining her end.   "He's terrible," said Emma Jane, "but awfullywizened and small.""It's only a twelve hundred dollar mortgage,"said Rebecca, "and that's called a small one. Johnsaw a man once that was mortgaged for twelvethousand.""Shall you be a writer or an editor?" askedEmma Jane presently, as if one had only to chooseand the thing were done.   "I shall have to do what turns up first, I suppose.""Why not go out as a missionary to Syria, as theBurches are always coaxing you to? The Boardwould pay your expenses.""I can't make up my mind to be a missionary,"Rebecca answered. "I'm not good enough in thefirst place, and I don't `feel a call,' as Mr. Burchsays you must. I would like to do something forsomebody and make things move, somewhere, butI don't want to go thousands of miles away teachingpeople how to live when I haven't learned myself.   It isn't as if the heathen really needed me; I'msure they'll come out all right in the end.""I can't see how; if all the people who ought togo out to save them stay at home as we do," arguedEmma Jane.   "Why, whatever God is, and wherever He is,He must always be there, ready and waiting. Hecan't move about and miss people. It may takethe heathen a little longer to find Him, but Godwill make allowances, of course. He knows if theylive in such hot climates it must make them lazyand slow; and the parrots and tigers and snakesand bread-fruit trees distract their minds; andhaving no books, they can't think as well; butthey'll find God somehow, some time.""What if they die first?" asked Emma Jane.   "Oh, well, they can't be blamed for that; theydon't die on purpose," said Rebecca, with acomfortable theology.   In these days Adam Ladd sometimes went toTemperance on business connected with the proposedbranch of the railroad familiarly knownas the "York and Yank 'em," and while there hegained an inkling of Sunnybrook affairs. Thebuilding of the new road was not yet a certainty, andthere was a difference of opinion as to the bestroute from Temperance to Plumville. In one eventthe way would lead directly through Sunnybrook,from corner to corner, and Mrs. Randall would becompensated; in the other, her interests would notbe affected either for good or ill, save as all land inthe immediate neighborhood might rise a little invalue.   Coming from Temperance to Wareham one day,Adam had a long walk and talk with Rebecca,whom he thought looking pale and thin, thoughshe was holding bravely to her self-imposed hoursof work. She was wearing a black cashmere dressthat had been her aunt Jane's second best. We arefamiliar with the heroine of romance whose foot isso exquisitely shaped that the coarsest shoe cannotconceal its perfections, and one always cherishes adoubt of the statement; yet it is true that Rebecca'speculiar and individual charm seemed whollyindependent of accessories. The lines of her fig-ure, the rare coloring of skin and hair and eyes,triumphed over shabby clothing, though, had theadvantage of artistic apparel been given her, thelittle world of Wareham would probably at oncehave dubbed her a beauty. The long black braidswere now disposed after a quaint fashion of herown. They were crossed behind, carried up to thefront, and crossed again, the tapering ends finallybrought down and hidden in the thicker part at theneck. Then a purely feminine touch was given tothe hair that waved back from the face,--a touchthat rescued little crests and wavelets from bondageand set them free to take a new color in the sun.   Adam Ladd looked at her in a way that madeher put her hands over her face and laugh throughthem shyly as she said: "I know what you arethinking, Mr. Aladdin,--that my dress is an inchlonger than last year, and my hair different; butI'm not nearly a young lady yet; truly I'm not.   Sixteen is a month off still, and you promised notto give me up till my dress trails. If you don't likeme to grow old, why don't you grow young? Thenwe can meet in the halfway house and have nicetimes. Now that I think about it," she continued,"that's just what you've been doing all along.   When you bought the soap, I thought you weregrandfather Sawyer's age; when you danced withme at the flag-raising, you seemed like my father;but when you showed me your mother's picture, Ifelt as if you were my John, because I was so sorryfor you.""That will do very well," smiled Adam; "unlessyou go so swiftly that you become my grandmotherbefore I really need one. You are studying toohard, Miss Rebecca Rowena!""Just a little," she confessed. "But vacationcomes soon, you know.""And are you going to have a good rest and tryto recover your dimples? They are really worthpreserving."A shadow crept over Rebecca's face and her eyessuffused. "Don't be kind, Mr. Aladdin, I can't bearit;--it's--it's not one of my dimply days!" andshe ran in at the seminary gate, and disappearedwith a farewell wave of her hand.   Adam Ladd wended his way to the principal'soffice in a thoughtful mood. He had come to Warehamto unfold a plan that he had been consideringfor several days. This year was the fiftiethanniversary of the founding of the Wareham schools,and he meant to tell Mr. Morrison that in additionto his gift of a hundred volumes to the referencelibrary, he intended to celebrate it by offering prizesin English composition, a subject in which he wasmuch interested. He wished the boys and girls ofthe two upper classes to compete; the award to bemade to the writers of the two best essays. As tothe nature of the prizes he had not quite made uphis mind, but they would be substantial ones, eitherof money or of books.   This interview accomplished, he called upon MissMaxwell, thinking as he took the path through thewoods, "Rose-Red-Snow-White needs the help, andsince there is no way of my giving it to her withoutcausing remark, she must earn it, poor little soul!   I wonder if my money is always to be useless wheremost I wish to spend it!"He had scarcely greeted his hostess when hesaid: "Miss Maxwell, doesn't it strike you thatour friend Rebecca looks wretchedly tired?""She does indeed, and I am considering whetherI can take her away with me. I always go Southfor the spring vacation, traveling by sea to OldPoint Comfort, and rusticating in some quiet spotnear by. I should like nothing better than to haveRebecca for a companion.""The very thing!" assented Adam heartily;"but why should you take the whole responsibility?   Why not let me help? I am greatly interested inthe child, and have been for some years.""You needn't pretend you discovered her,"interrupted Miss Maxwell warmly, "for I did thatmyself.""She was an intimate friend of mine long beforeyou ever came to Wareham," laughed Adam, andhe told Miss Maxwell the circumstances of his firstmeeting with Rebecca. "From the beginning I'vetried to think of a way I could be useful in herdevelopment, but no reasonable solution seemed tooffer itself.""Luckily she attends to her own development,"answered Miss Maxwell. "In a sense she isindependent of everything and everybody; she followsher saint without being conscious of it. But sheneeds a hundred practical things that money wouldbuy for her, and alas! I have a slender purse.""Take mine, I beg, and let me act through you,"pleaded Adam. "I could not bear to see even ayoung tree trying its best to grow without light orair,--how much less a gifted child! I interviewedher aunts a year ago, hoping I might be permittedto give her a musical education. I assured them itwas a most ordinary occurrence, and that I was willingto be repaid later on if they insisted, but it wasno use. The elder Miss Sawyer remarked that nomember of her family ever had lived on charity,and she guessed they wouldn't begin at this lateday.""I rather like that uncompromising New Englandgrit," exclaimed Miss Maxwell, "and so far, Idon't regret one burden that Rebecca has borne orone sorrow that she has shared. Necessity has onlymade her brave; poverty has only made her daringand self-reliant. As to her present needs, thereare certain things only a woman ought to do for agirl, and I should not like to have you do them forRebecca; I should feel that I was wounding herpride and self-respect, even though she were ignorant;but there is no reason why I may not do themif necessary and let you pay her traveling expenses.   I would accept those for her without the slightestembarrassment, but I agree that the matter wouldbetter be kept private between us.""You are a real fairy godmother!" exclaimedAdam, shaking her hand warmly. "Would it beless trouble for you to invite her room-mate too,--the pink-and-white inseparable?""No, thank you, I prefer to have Rebecca all tomyself," said Miss Maxwell.   "I can understand that," replied Adam absent-mindedly; "I mean, of course, that one child is lesstrouble than two. There she is now."Here Rebecca appeared in sight, walking downthe quiet street with a lad of sixteen. They were inanimated conversation, and were apparently readingsomething aloud to each other, for the black headand the curly brown one were both bent over a sheetof letter paper. Rebecca kept glancing up at hercompanion, her eyes sparkling with appreciation.   "Miss Maxwell," said Adam, "I am a trustee ofthis institution, but upon my word I don't believe incoeducation!""I have my own occasional hours of doubt," sheanswered, "but surely its disadvantages are reducedto a minimum with--children! That is a very im-pressive sight which you are privileged to witness,Mr. Ladd. The folk in Cambridge often gloatedon the spectacle of Longfellow and Lowell arm inarm. The little school world of Wareham palpitateswith excitement when it sees the senior andthe junior editors of The Pilot walking together!" Chapter 25 Roses Of Joy The day before Rebecca started for theSouth with Miss Maxwell she was in thelibrary with Emma Jane and Huldah,consulting dictionaries and encyclopaedias. As theywere leaving they passed the locked cases containingthe library of fiction, open to the teachers andtownspeople, but forbidden to the students.   They looked longingly through the glass, gettingsome little comfort from the titles of the volumes,as hungry children imbibe emotional nourishmentfrom the pies and tarts inside a confectioner's window.   Rebecca's eyes fell upon a new book in thecorner, and she read the name aloud with delight:   "_The Rose of Joy_. Listen, girls; isn't that lovely?   _The Rose of Joy_. It looks beautiful, and it soundsbeautiful. What does it mean, I wonder?""I guess everybody has a different rose," saidHuldah shrewdly. "I know what mine would be,and I'm not ashamed to own it. I'd like a yearin a city, with just as much money as I wantedto spend, horses and splendid clothes and amusementsevery minute of the day; and I'd like aboveeverything to live with people that wear lownecks." (Poor Huldah never took off her dress with-out bewailing the fact that her lot was cast inRiverboro, where her pretty white shoulders couldnever be seen.)"That would be fun, for a while anyway," EmmaJane remarked. "But wouldn't that be pleasuremore than joy? Oh, I've got an idea!""Don't shriek so!" said the startled Huldah.   "I thought it was a mouse.""I don't have them very often," apologized EmmaJane,--"ideas, I mean; this one shook me likea stroke of lightning. Rebecca, couldn't it be success?""That's good," mused Rebecca; "I can see thatsuccess would be a joy, but it doesn't seem to melike a rose, somehow. I was wondering if it couldbe love?""I wish we could have a peep at the book! Itmust be perfectly elergant!" said Emma Jane.   "But now you say it is love, I think that's the bestguess yet."All day long the four words haunted and possessedRebecca; she said them over to herself continually.   Even the prosaic Emma Jane was affectedby them, for in the evening she said, "I don'texpect you to believe it, but I have another idea,--that's two in one day; I had it while I was puttingcologne on your head. The rose of joy might behelpfulness.""If it is, then it is always blooming in your dearlittle heart, you darlingest, kind Emmie, takingsuch good care of your troublesome Becky!""Don't dare to call yourself troublesome! You're--you're--you're my rose of joy, that's what youare!" And the two girls hugged each other affectionately.   In the middle of the night Rebecca touchedEmma Jane on the shoulder softly. "Are you veryfast asleep, Emmie?" she whispered.   "Not so very," answered Emma Jane drowsily.   "I've thought of something new. If you sang orpainted or wrote,--not a little, but beautifully, youknow,--wouldn't the doing of it, just as much asyou wanted, give you the rose of joy?""It might if it was a real talent," answered EmmaJane, "though I don't like it so well as love. If youhave another thought, Becky, keep it till morning.""I did have one more inspiration," said Rebeccawhen they were dressing next morning, "but Ididn't wake you. I wondered if the rose of joycould be sacrifice? But I think sacrifice would bea lily, not a rose; don't you?"The journey southward, the first glimpse of theocean, the strange new scenes, the ease and deliciousfreedom, the intimacy with Miss Maxwell,almost intoxicated Rebecca. In three days she wasnot only herself again, she was another self, thrillingwith delight, anticipation, and realization. Shehad always had such eager hunger for knowledge,such thirst for love, such passionate longing for themusic, the beauty, the poetry of existence! Shehad always been straining to make the outwardworld conform to her inward dreams, and now lifehad grown all at once rich and sweet, wide and full.   She was using all her natural, God-given outlets;and Emily Maxwell marveled daily at the inexhaustibleway in which the girl poured out and gatheredin the treasures of thought and experience thatbelonged to her. She was a lifegiver, altering thewhole scheme of any picture she made a part of,by contributing new values. Have you never seenthe dull blues and greens of a room changed,transfigured by a burst of sunshine? That seemed toMiss Maxwell the effect of Rebecca on the groups ofpeople with whom they now and then mingled; butthey were commonly alone, reading to each otherand having quiet talks. The prize essay was verymuch on Rebecca's mind. Secretly she thoughtshe could never be happy unless she won it. Shecared nothing for the value of it, and in this casealmost nothing for the honor; she wanted to pleaseMr. Aladdin and justify his belief in her.   "If I ever succeed in choosing a subject, I mustask if you think I can write well on it; and thenI suppose I must work in silence and secret, nevereven reading the essay to you, nor talking about it."Miss Maxwell and Rebecca were sitting by a littlebrook on a sunny spring day. They had been in astretch of wood by the sea since breakfast, goingevery now and then for a bask on the warm whitesand, and returning to their shady solitude whentired of the sun's glare.   "The subject is very important," said MissMaxwell, "but I do not dare choose for you. Have youdecided on anything yet?""No," Rebecca answered; "I plan a new essayevery night. I've begun one on What is Failure?   and another on He and She. That would be adialogue between a boy and girl just as they wereleaving school, and would tell their ideals of life.   Then do you remember you said to me one day,`Follow your Saint'? I'd love to write about that.   I didn't have a single thought in Wareham, andnow I have a new one every minute, so I must tryand write the essay here; think it out, at any rate,while I am so happy and free and rested. Look atthe pebbles in the bottom of the pool, Miss Emily,so round and smooth and shining.""Yes, but where did they get that beautifulpolish, that satin skin, that lovely shape, Rebecca?   Not in the still pool lying on the sands. It wasnever there that their angles were rubbed off andtheir rough surfaces polished, but in the strife andwarfare of running waters. They have jostledagainst other pebbles, dashed against sharp rocks,and now we look at them and call them beautiful.""If Fate had not made somebody a teacher,She might have been, oh! such a splendid preacher!"rhymed Rebecca. "Oh! if I could only think andspeak as you do!" she sighed. "I am so afraid Ishall never get education enough to make a goodwriter.""You could worry about plenty of other thingsto better advantage," said Miss Maxwell, a littlescornfully. "Be afraid, for instance, that you won'tunderstand human nature; that you won't realizethe beauty of the outer world; that you may lacksympathy, and thus never be able to read a heart;that your faculty of expression may not keep pacewith your ideas,--a thousand things, every one ofthem more important to the writer than the knowledgethat is found in books. AEsop was a Greekslave who could not even write down his wonderfulfables; yet all the world reads them.""I didn't know that," said Rebecca, with a halfsob. "I didn't know anything until I met you!""You will only have had a high school course, butthe most famous universities do not always succeedin making men and women. When I long to goabroad and study, I always remember that therewere three great schools in Athens and two inJerusalem, but the Teacher of all teachers came out ofNazareth, a little village hidden away from the bigger,busier world.""Mr. Ladd says that you are almost wasted onWareham." said Rebecca thoughtfully.   "He is wrong; my talent is not a great one, butno talent is wholly wasted unless its owner choosesto hide it in a napkin. Remember that of your owngifts, Rebecca; they may not be praised of men, butthey may cheer, console, inspire, perhaps, when andwhere you least expect. The brimming glass thatoverflows its own rim moistens the earth about it.""Did you ever hear of The Rose of Joy?" askedRebecca, after a long silence.   "Yes, of course; where did you see it?""On the outside of a book in the library.""I saw it on the inside of a book in the library,"smiled Miss Maxwell. "It is from Emerson, butI'm afraid you haven't quite grown up to it,Rebecca, and it is one of the things impossible toexplain.""Oh, try me, dear Miss Maxwell!" pleadedRebecca. "Perhaps by thinking hard I can guess alittle bit what it means.""`In the actual--this painful kingdom of timeand chance--are Care, Canker, and Sorrow; withthought, with the Ideal, is immortal hilarity--therose of Joy; round it all the Muses sing,'" quotedMiss Maxwell.   Rebecca repeated it over and over again until shehad learned it by heart; then she said, "I don'twant to be conceited, but I almost believe I dounderstand it, Miss Maxwell. Not altogether, perhaps,because it is puzzling and difficult; but a little,enough to go on with. It's as if a splendid shapegalloped past you on horseback; you are so surprisedand your eyes move so slowly you cannothalf see it, but you just catch a glimpse as it whisksby, and you know it is beautiful. It's all settled.   My essay is going to be called The Rose of Joy.   I've just decided. It hasn't any beginning, nor anymiddle, but there will be a thrilling ending,something like this: let me see; joy, boy, toy, ahoy,decoy, alloy:--Then come what will of weal or woe(Since all gold hath alloy),Thou 'lt bloom unwithered in this heart,My Rose of Joy!   Now I'm going to tuck you up in the shawl andgive you the fir pillow, and while you sleep I amgoing down on the shore and write a fairy story foryou. It's one of our `supposing' kind; it flies far,far into the future, and makes beautiful things happenthat may never really all come to pass; butsome of them will,--you'll see! and then you'lltake out the little fairy story from your desk andremember Rebecca.""I wonder why these young things always choosesubjects that would tax the powers of a greatessayist!" thought Miss Maxwell, as she tried to sleep.   "Are they dazzled, captivated, taken possession of,by the splendor of the theme, and do they fancythey can write up to it? Poor little innocents, hitch-ing their toy wagons to the stars! How pretty thisparticular innocent looks under her new sunshade!"Adam Ladd had been driving through Bostonstreets on a cold spring day when nature and thefashion-mongers were holding out promises whichseemed far from performance. Suddenly his visionwas assailed by the sight of a rose-colored parasolgayly unfurled in a shop window, signaling thepasser-by and setting him to dream of summersunshine. It reminded Adam of a New England apple-tree in full bloom, the outer covering of deep pinkshining through the thin white lining, and a fluffy,fringe-like edge of mingled rose and cream droppingover the green handle. All at once he rememberedone of Rebecca's early confidences,--the little pinksunshade that had given her the only peep into thegay world of fashion that her childhood had everknown; her adoration of the flimsy bit of finery andits tragic and sacrificial end. He entered the shop,bought the extravagant bauble, and expressed it toWareham at once, not a single doubt of itsappropriateness crossing the darkness of his masculinemind. He thought only of the joy in Rebecca'seyes; of the poise of her head under the apple-blossomcanopy. It was a trifle embarrassing to returnan hour later and buy a blue parasol for Emma JanePerkins, but it seemed increasingly difficult, as theyears went on, to remember her existence at allthe proper times and seasons.   This is Rebecca's fairy story, copied the next dayand given to Emily Maxwell just as she was going toher room for the night. She read it with tears in hereyes and then sent it to Adam Ladd, thinking he hadearned a share in it, and that he deserved a glimpseof the girl's budding imagination, as well as of hergrateful young heart.   A FAIRY STORYThere was once a tired and rather poverty-stricken Princess who dwelt in a cottage on thegreat highway between two cities. She was not asunhappy as thousands of others; indeed, she hadmuch to be grateful for, but the life she lived andthe work she did were full hard for one who wasfashioned slenderly.   Now the cottage stood by the edge of a greatgreen forest where the wind was always singingin the branches and the sunshine filtering throughthe leaves.   And one day when the Princess was sitting by thewayside quite spent by her labor in the fields, shesaw a golden chariot rolling down the King's Highway,and in it a person who could be none other thansomebody's Fairy Godmother on her way to theCourt. The chariot halted at her door, and thoughthe Princess had read of such beneficent personages,she never dreamed for an instant that one of themcould ever alight at her cottage.   "If you are tired, poor little Princess, why do younot go into the cool green forest and rest?" askedthe Fairy Godmother.   "Because I have no time," she answered. "Imust go back to my plough.""Is that your plough leaning by the tree, and isit not too heavy?""It is heavy," answered the Princess, "but I loveto turn the hard earth into soft furrows and knowthat I am making good soil wherein my seeds maygrow. When I feel the weight too much, I try tothink of the harvest."The golden chariot passed on, and the two talkedno more together that day; nevertheless the King'smessengers were busy, for they whispered one wordinto the ear of the Fairy Godmother and anotherinto the ear of the Princess, though so faintly thatneither of them realized that the King had spoken.   The next morning a strong man knocked at thecottage door, and doffing his hat to the Princesssaid: "A golden chariot passed me yesterday, andone within it flung me a purse of ducats, saying:   `Go out into the King's Highway and search untilyou find a cottage and a heavy plough leaning againsta tree near by. Enter and say to the Princess whomyou will find there: "I will guide the plough andyou must go and rest, or walk in the cool greenforest; for this is the command of your FairyGodmother."'"And the same thing happened every day, andevery day the tired Princess walked in the greenwood. Many times she caught the glitter of thechariot and ran into the Highway to give thanksto the Fairy Godmother; but she was never fleetenough to reach the spot. She could only standwith eager eyes and longing heart as the chariotpassed by. Yet she never failed to catch a smile,and sometimes a word or two floated back to her,words that sounded like: "I would not be thanked.   We are all children of the same King, and I am onlyhis messenger."Now as the Princess walked daily in the greenforest, hearing the wind singing in the branches andseeing the sunlight filter through the lattice-work ofgreen leaves, there came unto her thoughts that hadlain asleep in the stifling air of the cottage and theweariness of guiding the plough. And by and byshe took a needle from her girdle and pricked thethoughts on the leaves of the trees and sent theminto the air to float hither and thither. And it cameto pass that people began to pick them up, and holdingthem against the sun, to read what was writtenon them, and this was because the simple littlewords on the leaves were only, after all, a part ofone of the King's messages, such as the Fairy Godmotherdropped continually from her golden chariot.   But the miracle of the story lies deeper than all this.   Whenever the Princess pricked the words uponthe leaves she added a thought of her Fairy Godmother,and folding it close within, sent the leaf outon the breeze to float hither and thither and fallwhere it would. And many other little Princessesfelt the same impulse and did the same thing. Andas nothing is ever lost in the King's Dominion, sothese thoughts and wishes and hopes, being fullof love and gratitude, had no power to die, but tookunto themselves other shapes and lived on forever.   They cannot be seen, our vision is too weak; norheard, our hearing is too dull; but they can sometimesbe felt, and we know not what force is stirringour hearts to nobler aims.   The end of the story is not come, but it may bethat some day when the Fairy Godmother has a messageto deliver in person straight to the King, he willsay: "Your face I know; your voice, your thoughts,and your heart. I have heard the rumble of yourchariot wheels on the great Highway, and I knewthat you were on the King's business. Here in myhand is a sheaf of messages from every quarter ofmy kingdom. They were delivered by weary andfootsore travelers, who said that they could neverhave reached the gate in safety had it not been foryour help and inspiration. Read them, that youmay know when and where and how you sped theKing's service."And when the Fairy Godmother reads them, itmay be that sweet odors will rise from the pages,and half-forgotten memories will stir the air; butin the gladness of the moment nothing will be halfso lovely as the voice of the King when he said:   "Read, and know how you sped the King's service."Rebecca Rowena Randall Chapter 26 Over The Teacups The summer term at Wareham had ended,and Huldah Meserve, Dick Carter, andLiving Perkins had finished school, leavingRebecca and Emma Jane to represent Riverboroin the year to come. Delia Weeks was at homefrom Lewiston on a brief visit, and Mrs. Robinsonwas celebrating the occasion by a small and selectparty, the particular day having been set becausestrawberries were ripe and there was a rooster thatwanted killing. Mrs. Robinson explained this to herhusband, and requested that he eat his dinner onthe carpenter's bench in the shed, as the party wasto be a ladies' affair.   "All right; it won't be any loss to me," said Mr.   Robinson. "Give me beans, that's all I ask. Whena rooster wants to be killed, I want somebody elseto eat him, not me!"Mrs. Robinson had company only once or twicea year, and was generally much prostrated for severaldays afterward, the struggle between pride andparsimony being quite too great a strain upon her.   It was necessary, in order to maintain her standingin the community, to furnish a good "set out," yetthe extravagance of the proceeding goaded her fromthe first moment she began to stir the marble caketo the moment when the feast appeared upon thetable.   The rooster had been boiling steadily over a slowfire since morning, but such was his power of resistancethat his shape was as firm and handsome inthe pot as on the first moment when he was loweredinto it.   "He ain't goin' to give up!" said Alice, peeringnervously under the cover, "and he looks like ascarecrow.""We'll see whether he gives up or not when Itake a sharp knife to him," her mother answered;"and as to his looks, a platter full o' gravy makesa sight o' difference with old roosters, and I'll putdumplings round the aidge; they're turrible fillin',though they don't belong with boiled chicken."The rooster did indeed make an impressive showing,lying in his border of dumplings, and the dishwas much complimented when it was borne in byAlice. This was fortunate, as the chorus of admirationceased abruptly when the ladies began to eatthe fowl.   "I was glad you could git over to Huldy'sgraduation, Delia," said Mrs. Meserve, who sat at thefoot of the table and helped the chicken while Mrs.   Robinson poured coffee at the other end. She wasa fit mother for Huldah, being much the most stylishperson in Riverboro; ill health and dress were,indeed, her two chief enjoyments in life. It wasrumored that her elaborately curled "front piece"had cost five dollars, and that it was sent into Portlandtwice a year to be dressed and frizzed; butit is extremely difficult to discover the precise factsin such cases, and a conscientious historian alwaysprefers to warn a too credulous reader againstimbibing as gospel truth something that might bethe basest perversion of it. As to Mrs. Meserve'sappearance, have you ever, in earlier years, soughtthe comforting society of the cook and hung overthe kitchen table while she rolled out sugargingerbread? Perhaps then, in some unaccustomedmoment of amiability, she made you a dough lady,cutting the outline deftly with her pastry knife, andthen, at last, placing the human stamp upon it bysticking in two black currants for eyes. Just call tomind the face of that sugar gingerbread lady andyou will have an exact portrait of Huldah's mother,--Mis' Peter Meserve, she was generally called,there being several others.   "How'd you like Huldy's dress, Delia?" sheasked, snapping the elastic in her black jet braceletsafter an irritating fashion she had.   "I thought it was about the handsomest of any,"answered Delia; "and her composition was firstrate. It was the only real amusin' one there was,and she read it so loud and clear we didn't missany of it; most o' the girls spoke as if they hadhasty pudtin' in their mouths.""That was the composition she wrote for AdamLadd's prize," explained Mrs. Meserve, "and theydo say she'd 'a' come out first, 'stead o' fourth,if her subject had been dif'rent. There was threeministers and three deacons on the committee, andit was only natural they should choose a seriouspiece; hers was too lively to suit 'em."Huldah's inspiring theme had been Boys, and shecertainly had a fund of knowledge and experiencethat fitted her to write most intelligently upon it. Itwas vastly popular with the audience, who enjoyedthe rather cheap jokes and allusions with which itcoruscated; but judged from a purely literary standpoint,it left much to be desired.   "Rebecca's piece wan't read out loud, but theone that took the boy's prize was; why was that?"asked Mrs. Robinson.   "Because she wan't graduatin'," explained Mrs.   Cobb, "and couldn't take part in the exercises;it'll be printed, with Herbert Dunn's, in the schoolpaper.""I'm glad o' that, for I'll never believe it wasbetter 'n Huldy's till I read it with my own eyes;it seems as if the prize ought to 'a' gone to one ofthe seniors.""Well, no, Marthy, not if Ladd offered it to anyof the two upper classes that wanted to try for it,"argued Mrs. Robinson. "They say they asked himto give out the prizes, and he refused, up and down.   It seems odd, his bein' so rich and travelin' aboutall over the country, that he was too modest to gitup on that platform.""My Huldy could 'a' done it, and not winked aneyelash," observed Mrs. Meserve complacently; aremark which there seemed no disposition on thepart of any of the company to controvert.   "It was complete, though, the governor happeningto be there to see his niece graduate," said DeliaWeeks. "Land! he looked elegant! They say he'sonly six feet, but he might 'a' been sixteen, and hecertainly did make a fine speech.""Did you notice Rebecca, how white she was,and how she trembled when she and Herbert Dunnstood there while the governor was praisin' 'em?   He'd read her composition, too, for he wrote theSawyer girls a letter about it." This remark wasfrom the sympathetic Mrs. Cobb.   "I thought 't was kind o' foolish, his makin' somuch of her when it wan't her graduation,"objected Mrs. Meserve; "layin' his hand on her head'n' all that, as if he was a Pope pronouncin' benediction.   But there! I'm glad the prize come to Riverboro't any rate, and a han'somer one never wasgive out from the Wareham platform. I guess thereain't no end to Adam Ladd's money. The fifty dollarswould 'a' been good enough, but he must needsgo and put it into those elegant purses.""I set so fur back I couldn't see 'em fairly,"complained Delia, "and now Rebecca has takenhers home to show her mother.""It was kind of a gold net bag with a chain," saidMrs. Perkins, "and there was five ten-dollar goldpieces in it. Herbert Dunn's was put in a fineleather wallet.""How long is Rebecca goin' to stay at the farm?"asked Delia.   "Till they get over Hannah's bein' married, andget the house to runnin' without her," answeredMrs. Perkins. "It seems as if Hannah might 'a'   waited a little longer. Aurelia was set against hergoin' away while Rebecca was at school, but she'sobstinate as a mule, Hannah is, and she just tookher own way in spite of her mother. She's beendoin' her sewin' for a year; the awfullest coarsecotton cloth she had, but she's nearly blinded herselfwith fine stitchin' and rufflin' and tuckin'. Didyou hear about the quilt she made? It's white, andhas a big bunch o' grapes in the centre, quilted bya thimble top. Then there's a row of circle-borderin'   round the grapes, and she done them the sizeof a spool. The next border was done with a sherryglass, and the last with a port glass, an' all outsideo' that was solid stitchin' done in straight rows;she's goin' to exhibit it at the county fair.""She'd better 'a' been takin' in sewin' and earnin'   money, 'stead o' blindin' her eyes on such foolishnessas quilted counterpanes," said Mrs. Cobb.   "The next thing you know that mortgage will beforeclosed on Mis' Randall, and she and the childrenwon't have a roof over their heads.""Don't they say there's a good chance of therailroad goin' through her place?" asked Mrs.   Robinson. "If it does, she'll git as much as the farmis worth and more. Adam Ladd 's one of the stockholders,and everything is a success he takes holtof. They're fightin' it in Augusty, but I'd backLadd agin any o' them legislaters if he thought hewas in the right.""Rebecca'll have some new clothes now," saidDelia, "and the land knows she needs 'em. Seemsto me the Sawyer girls are gittin' turrible near!""Rebecca won't have any new clothes out o' theprize money," remarked Mrs. Perkins, "for she sentit away the next day to pay the interest on thatmortgage.""Poor little girl!" exclaimed Delia Weeks.   "She might as well help along her folks as spendit on foolishness," affirmed Mrs. Robinson. "I thinkshe was mighty lucky to git it to pay the interestwith, but she's probably like all the Randalls; itwas easy come, easy go, with them.""That's more than could be said of the Sawyerstock," retorted Mrs. Perkins; "seems like theyenjoyed savin' more'n anything in the world, andit's gainin' on Mirandy sence her shock.""I don't believe it was a shock; it stands toreason she'd never 'a' got up after it and been sosmart as she is now; we had three o' the worstshocks in our family that there ever was on thisriver, and I know every symptom of 'em better'nthe doctors." And Mrs. Peter Meserve shook herhead wisely.   "Mirandy 's smart enough," said Mrs. Cobb,"but you notice she stays right to home, and she'smore close-mouthed than ever she was; never tooka mite o' pride in the prize, as I could see, thoughit pretty nigh drove Jeremiah out o' his senses. Ithought I should 'a' died o' shame when he cried`Hooray!' and swung his straw hat when the governorshook hands with Rebecca. It's lucky hecouldn't get fur into the church and had to standback by the door, for as it was, he made a spectacleof himself. My suspicion is"--and here every ladystopped eating and sat up straight--"that theSawyer girls have lost money. They don't know athing about business 'n' never did, and Mirandy'stoo secretive and contrairy to ask advice.""The most o' what they've got is in gov'mentbonds, I always heard, and you can't lose moneyon them. Jane had the timber land left her, an'   Mirandy had the brick house. She probably tookit awful hard that Rebecca's fifty dollars had to beswallowed up in a mortgage, 'stead of goin' towardsschool expenses. The more I think of it, the moreI think Adam Ladd intended Rebecca should havethat prize when he gave it." The mind of Huldah'smother ran towards the idea that her daughter'srights had been assailed.   "Land, Marthy, what foolishness you talk!"exclaimed Mrs. Perkins; "you don't suppose hecould tell what composition the committee wasgoing to choose; and why should he offer anotherfifty dollars for a boy's prize, if he wan't interestedin helpin' along the school? He's give Emma Janeabout the same present as Rebecca every Christmasfor five years; that's the way he does.""Some time he'll forget one of 'em and give tothe other, or drop 'em both and give to some newgirl!" said Delia Weeks, with an experience bornof fifty years of spinsterhood.   "Like as not," assented Mrs. Peter Meserve,"though it's easy to see he ain't the marryin' kind.   There's men that would marry once a year if theirwives would die fast enough, and there's men thatseems to want to live alone.""If Ladd was a Mormon, I guess he could haveevery woman in North Riverboro that's a suitableage, accordin' to what my cousins say," remarkedMrs. Perkins.   "'T ain't likely he could be ketched by any NorthRiverboro girl," demurred Mrs. Robinson; "notwhen he prob'bly has had the pick o' Boston. Iguess Marthy hit it when she said there's menthat ain't the marryin' kind.""I wouldn't trust any of 'em when Miss Rightcomes along!" laughed Mrs. Cobb genially. "Younever can tell what 'n' who 's goin' to please 'em.   You know Jeremiah's contrairy horse, Buster? Hewon't let anybody put the bit into his mouth if hecan help it. He'll fight Jerry, and fight me, till hehas to give in. Rebecca didn't know nothin' abouthis tricks, and the other day she went int' thebarn to hitch up. I followed right along, knowingshe'd have trouble with the headstall, and I declareif she wan't pattin' Buster's nose and talkin' tohim, and when she put her little fingers into hismouth he opened it so fur I thought he'd swallerher, for sure. He jest smacked his lips over the bitas if 't was a lump o' sugar. `Land, Rebecca,' Isays, `how'd you persuade him to take the bit?'   `I didn't,' she says, `he seemed to want it; perhapshe's tired of his stall and wants to get out inthe fresh air.'" Chapter 27 "The Vision Splendid" A year had elapsed since Adam Ladd'sprize had been discussed over the teacupsin Riverboro. The months had come andgone, and at length the great day had dawned forRebecca,--the day to which she had been lookingforward for five years, as the first goal to be reachedon her little journey through the world. School-days were ended, and the mystic function knownto the initiated as "graduation" was about to becelebrated; it was even now heralded by the sundawning in the eastern sky. Rebecca stole softlyout of bed, crept to the window, threw open theblinds, and welcomed the rosy light that meant acloudless morning. Even the sun looked differentsomehow,--larger, redder, more important thanusual; and if it were really so, there was no memberof the graduating class who would have thoughtit strange or unbecoming, in view of all thecircumstances. Emma Jane stirred on her pillow,woke, and seeing Rebecca at the window, came andknelt on the floor beside her. "It's going to bepleasant!" she sighed gratefully. "If it wasn'twicked, I could thank the Lord, I'm so relieved inmind! Did you sleep?""Not much; the words of my class poem keptrunning through my head, and the accompanimentsof the songs; and worse than anything, MaryQueen of Scots' prayer in Latin; it seemed as if"`Adoro, imploro,Ut liberes me!'   were burned into my brain."No one who is unfamiliar with life in ruralneighborhoods can imagine the gravity, the importance,the solemnity of this last day of school. Inthe matter of preparation, wealth of detail, and generalexcitement it far surpasses a wedding; for thatis commonly a simple affair in the country, sometimeseven beginning and ending in a visit to theparsonage. Nothing quite equals graduation in theminds of the graduates themselves, their families,and the younger students, unless it be the inaugurationof a governor at the State Capitol. Wareham,then, was shaken to its very centre on thisday of days. Mothers and fathers of the scholars,as well as relatives to the remotest generation, hadbeen coming on the train and driving into the townsince breakfast time; old pupils, both married andsingle, with and without families, streamed back tothe dear old village. The two livery stables werecrowded with vehicles of all sorts, and lines of buggiesand wagons were drawn up along the sides ofthe shady roads, the horses switching their tails inluxurious idleness. The streets were filled withpeople wearing their best clothes, and the fashionsincluded not only "the latest thing," but the wellpreserved relic of a bygone day. There were allsorts and conditions of men and women, for therewere sons and daughters of storekeepers, lawyers,butchers, doctors, shoemakers, professors, ministers,and farmers at the Wareham schools, eitheras boarders or day scholars. In the seminary buildingthere was an excitement so deep and profoundthat it expressed itself in a kind of hushed silence,a transient suspension of life, as those most interestedapproached the crucial moment. The femininegraduates-to-be were seated in their ownbedrooms, dressed with a completeness of detailto which all their past lives seemed to have beenbut a prelude. At least, this was the case with theirbodies; but their heads, owing to the extreme heatof the day, were one and all ornamented with leads,or papers, or dozens of little braids, to issue laterin every sort of curl known to the girl of thatperiod. Rolling the hair on leads or papers was afavorite method of attaining the desired result, andthough it often entailed a sleepless night, therewere those who gladly paid the price. Others, inwhose veins the blood of martyrs did not flow,substituted rags for leads and pretended that theymade a more natural and less woolly curl. Heat,however, will melt the proudest head and reduceto fiddling strings the finest product of the waving-pin; so anxious mothers were stationed overtheir offspring, waving palm-leaf fans, it havingbeen decided that the supreme instant when thetown clock struck ten should be the one chosenfor releasing the prisoners from their self-imposedtortures.   Dotted or plain Swiss muslin was the favoritegarb, though there were those who were steamingin white cashmere or alpaca, because in some casessuch frocks were thought more useful afterwards.   Blue and pink waist ribbons were lying over thebacks of chairs, and the girl who had a Romansash was praying that she might be kept fromvanity and pride.   The way to any graduating dress at all had notseemed clear to Rebecca until a month before.   Then, in company with Emma Jane, she visited thePerkins attic, found piece after piece of white butter-muslin or cheesecloth, and decided that, at apinch, it would do. The "rich blacksmith's daughter"cast the thought of dotted Swiss behind her,and elected to follow Rebecca in cheesecloth asshe had in higher matters; straightway devisingcostumes that included such drawing of threads,such hemstitching and pin-tucking, such insertionsof fine thread tatting that, in order to be finished,Rebecca's dress was given out in sections,--thesash to Hannah, waist and sleeves to Mrs. Cobb,and skirt to aunt Jane. The stitches that wentinto the despised material, worth only three orfour pennies a yard, made the dresses altogetherlovely, and as for the folds and lines into whichthey fell, they could have given points to satinsand brocades.   The two girls were waiting in their room alone,Emma Jane in rather a tearful state of mind. Shekept thinking that it was the last day that theywould be together in this altogether sweet andclose intimacy. The beginning of the end seemedto have dawned, for two positions had been offeredRebecca by Mr. Morrison the day before: one inwhich she would play for singing and calisthenics,and superintend the piano practice of the youngergirls in a boarding-school; the other an assistant'splace in the Edgewood High School. Both werevery modest as to salary, but the former includededucational advantages that Miss Maxwell thoughtmight be valuable.   Rebecca's mood had passed from that of excitementinto a sort of exaltation, and when the firstbell rang through the corridors announcing that infive minutes the class would proceed in a body tothe church for the exercises, she stood motionlessand speechless at the window with her hand onher heart.   "It is coming, Emmie," she said presently; "doyou remember in The Mill on the Floss, whenMaggie Tulliver closed the golden gates of childhoodbehind her? I can almost see them swing;almost hear them clang; and I can't tell whether Iam glad or sorry.""I shouldn't care how they swung or clanged,"said Emma Jane, "if only you and I were on thesame side of the gate; but we shan't be, I knowwe shan't!""Emmie, don't dare to cry, for I'm just on thebrink myself! If only you were graduating withme; that's my only sorrow! There! I hear therumble of the wheels! People will be seeing ourgrand surprise now! Hug me once for luck, dearEmmie; a careful hug, remembering our butter-muslin frailty!"Ten minutes later, Adam Ladd, who had justarrived from Portland and was wending his way tothe church, came suddenly into the main street andstopped short under a tree by the wayside, rivetedto the spot by a scene of picturesque lovelinesssuch as his eyes had seldom witnessed before. Theclass of which Rebecca was president was notlikely to follow accepted customs. Instead of marchingtwo by two from the seminary to the church,they had elected to proceed thither by royal chariot.   A haycart had been decked with green vines andbunches of long-stemmed field daisies, those gaydarlings of New England meadows. Every inch ofthe rail, the body, even the spokes, all were twinedwith yellow and green and white. There were twowhite horses, flower-trimmed reins, and in the floralbower, seated on maple boughs, were the twelvegirls of the class, while the ten boys marched oneither side of the vehicle, wearing buttonholebouquets of daisies, the class flower.   Rebecca drove, seated on a green-covered benchthat looked not unlike a throne. No girl cladin white muslin, no happy girl of seventeen, isplain; and the twelve little country maids, fromthe vantage ground of their setting, lookedbeautiful, as the June sunlight filtered down on theiruncovered heads, showing their bright eyes, theirfresh cheeks, their smiles, and their dimples.   Rebecca, Adam thought, as he took off his hatand saluted the pretty panorama,--Rebecca, withher tall slenderness, her thoughtful brow, the fireof young joy in her face, her fillet of dark braidedhair, might have been a young Muse or Sibyl; andthe flowery hayrack, with its freight of bloominggirlhood, might have been painted as an allegoricalpicture of The Morning of Life. It all passed him,as he stood under the elms in the old village streetwhere his mother had walked half a century ago,and he was turning with the crowd towards thechurch when he heard a little sob. Behind a hedgein the garden near where he was standing was aforlorn person in white, whose neat nose, chestnuthair, and blue eyes he seemed to know. He steppedinside the gate and said, "What's wrong, MissEmma?""Oh, is it you, Mr. Ladd? Rebecca wouldn'tlet me cry for fear of spoiling my looks, but I musthave just one chance before I go in. I can be ashomely as I like, after all, for I only have to singwith the school; I'm not graduating, I'm justleaving! Not that I mind that; it's only beingseparated from Rebecca that I never can stand!"The two walked along together, Adam comfortingthe disconsolate Emma Jane, until they reachedthe old meeting-house where the Commencementexercises were always held. The interior, withits decorations of yellow, green, and white, wascrowded, the air hot and breathless, the essays andsongs and recitations precisely like all others thathave been since the world began. One always fearsthat the platform may sink under the weight ofyouthful platitudes uttered on such occasions; yetone can never be properly critical, because the sightof the boys and girls themselves, those young andhopeful makers of to-morrow, disarms one's scorn.   We yawn desperately at the essays, but our heartsgo out to the essayists, all the same, for "the visionsplendid" is shining in their eyes, and there is nofear of "th' inevitable yoke" that the years are sosurely bringing them.   Rebecca saw Hannah and her husband in theaudience; dear old John and cousin Ann also, andfelt a pang at the absence of her mother, thoughshe had known there was no possibility of seeingher; for poor Aurelia was kept at Sunnybrook bycares of children and farm, and lack of moneyeither for the journey or for suitable dress. TheCobbs she saw too. No one, indeed, could fail tosee uncle Jerry; for he shed tears more than once,and in the intervals between the essays descantedto his neighbors concerning the marvelous giftsof one of the graduating class whom he had knownever since she was a child; in fact, had driven herfrom Maplewood to Riverboro when she left herhome, and he had told mother that same night thatthere wan't nary rung on the ladder o' fame thatthat child wouldn't mount before she got throughwith it.   The Cobbs, then, had come, and there wereother Riverboro faces, but where was aunt Jane,in her black silk made over especially for thisoccasion? Aunt Miranda had not intended to come,she knew, but where, on this day of days, was herbeloved aunt Jane? However, this thought, likeall others, came and went in a flash, for the wholemorning was like a series of magic lanternpictures, crossing and recrossing her field of vision.   She played, she sang, she recited Queen Mary'sLatin prayer, like one in a dream, only brought toconsciousness by meeting Mr. Aladdin's eyes asshe spoke the last line. Then at the end of theprogramme came her class poem, Makers of To-morrow; and there, as on many a former occasion,her personality played so great a part that sheseemed to be uttering Miltonic sentiments insteadof school-girl verse. Her voice, her eyes, her bodybreathed conviction, earnestness, emotion; andwhen she left the platform the audience felt thatthey had listened to a masterpiece. Most of herhearers knew little of Carlyle or Emerson, or theymight have remembered that the one said, "Weare all poets when we read a poem well," and theother, "'T is the good reader makes the goodbook."It was over! The diplomas had been presented,and each girl, after giving furtive touches to herhair, sly tweaks to her muslin skirts, and caressingpats to her sash, had gone forward to receive theroll of parchment with a bow that had been thesubject of anxious thought for weeks. Rounds ofapplause greeted each graduate at this thrillingmoment, and Jeremiah Cobb's behavior, whenRebecca came forward, was the talk of Wareham andRiverboro for days. Old Mrs. Webb avowed thathe, in the space of two hours, had worn out herpew more--the carpet, the cushions, and woodwork--than she had by sitting in it forty years.   Yes, it was over, and after the crowd had thinneda little, Adam Ladd made his way to the platform.   Rebecca turned from speaking to some stran-gers and met him in the aisle. "Oh, Mr. Aladdin,I am so glad you could come! Tell me"--and shelooked at him half shyly, for his approval was dearerto her, and more difficult to win, than that of theothers--"tell me, Mr. Aladdin,--were you satisfied?""More than satisfied!" he said; "glad I metthe child, proud I know the girl, longing to meetthe woman!" Chapter 28 "Th' Inevitable Yoke" Rebecca's heart beat high at this sweetpraise from her hero's lips, but before shehad found words to thank him, Mr. andMrs. Cobb, who had been modestly biding theirtime in a corner, approached her and she introducedthem to Mr. Ladd.   "Where, where is aunt Jane?" she cried, holdingaunt Sarah's hand on one side and uncle Jerry'son the other.   "I'm sorry, lovey, but we've got bad news foryou.""Is aunt Miranda worse? She is; I can see itby your looks;" and Rebecca's color faded.   "She had a second stroke yesterday morningjest when she was helpin' Jane lay out her thingsto come here to-day. Jane said you wan't to knowanything about it till the exercises was all over, andwe promised to keep it secret till then.""I will go right home with you, aunt Sarah. Imust just run to tell Miss Maxwell, for after I hadpacked up to-morrow I was going to Brunswick withher. Poor aunt Miranda! And I have been so gayand happy all day, except that I was longing formother and aunt Jane.""There ain't no harm in bein' gay, lovey; that'swhat Jane wanted you to be. And Miranda's gother speech back, for your aunt has just sent a lettersayin' she's better; and I'm goin' to set up to-night,so you can stay here and have a good sleep, and getyour things together comfortably to-morrow.""I'll pack your trunk for you, Becky dear, andattend to all our room things," said Emma Jane,who had come towards the group and heard thesorrowful news from the brick house.   They moved into one of the quiet side pews,where Hannah and her husband and John joinedthem. From time to time some straggling acquaintanceor old schoolmate would come up to congratulateRebecca and ask why she had hidden herselfin a corner. Then some member of the class wouldcall to her excitedly, reminding her not to be lateat the picnic luncheon, or begging her to be earlyat the class party in the evening. All this had anair of unreality to Rebecca. In the midst of thehappy excitement of the last two days, when"blushing honors" had been falling thick upon her, andbehind the delicious exaltation of the morning, hadbeen the feeling that the condition was a transientone, and that the burden, the struggle, the anxiety,would soon loom again on the horizon. She longedto steal away into the woods with dear old John,grown so manly and handsome, and get some comfortfrom him.   Meantime Adam Ladd and Mr. Cobb had beenhaving an animated conversation.   "I s'pose up to Boston, girls like that one are asthick as blackb'ries?" uncle Jerry said, jerking hishead interrogatively in Rebecca's direction.   "They may be," smiled Adam, taking in the oldman's mood; "only I don't happen to know one.""My eyesight bein' poor 's the reason she lookedhan'somest of any girl on the platform, I s'pose?""There's no failure in my eyes," responded Adam,"but that was how the thing seemed to me!""What did you think of her voice? Anythingextry about it?""Made the others sound poor and thin, Ithought.""Well, I'm glad to hear your opinion, you bein'   a traveled man, for mother says I'm foolish 'boutRebecky and hev been sence the fust. Motherscolds me for spoilin' her, but I notice mother ain'tfur behind when it comes to spoilin'. Land! itmade me sick, thinkin' o' them parents travelin'   miles to see their young ones graduate, and thenwhen they got here hevin' to compare 'em with Rebecky.   Good-by, Mr. Ladd, drop in some day whenyou come to Riverboro.""I will," said Adam, shaking the old man's handcordially; "perhaps to-morrow if I drive Rebeccahome, as I shall offer to do. Do you think MissSawyer's condition is serious?""Well, the doctor don't seem to know; but anyhowshe's paralyzed, and she'll never walk furagain, poor soul! She ain't lost her speech; that'llbe a comfort to her."Adam left the church, and in crossing the commoncame upon Miss Maxwell doing the honorsof the institution, as she passed from group togroup of strangers and guests. Knowing thatshe was deeply interested in all Rebecca's plans, hetold her, as he drew her aside, that the girl wouldhave to leave Wareham for Riverboro the nextday.   "That is almost more than I can bear!" exclaimedMiss Maxwell, sitting down on a bench and stabbingthe greensward with her parasol. "It seems to meRebecca never has any respite. I had so manyplans for her this next month in fitting her for herposition, and now she will settle down to houseworkagain, and to the nursing of that poor, sick,cross old aunt.""If it had not been for the cross old aunt,Rebecca would still have been at Sunnybrook; andfrom the standpoint of educational advantages, orindeed advantages of any sort, she might as wellhave been in the backwoods," returned Adam.   "That is true; I was vexed when I spoke, for Ithought an easier and happier day was dawning formy prodigy and pearl.""OUR prodigy and pearl," corrected Adam.   "Oh, yes!" she laughed. "I always forget thatit pleases you to pretend you discovered Rebecca.""I believe, though, that happier days are dawningfor her," continued Adam. "It must be a secretfor the present, but Mrs. Randall's farm will bebought by the new railroad. We must have rightof way through the land, and the station will bebuilt on her property. She will receive six thousanddollars, which, though not a fortune, will yield herthree or four hundred dollars a year, if she willallow me to invest it for her. There is a mortgageon the land; that paid, and Rebecca self-supporting,the mother ought to push the education of the oldestboy, who is a fine, ambitious fellow. He shouldbe taken away from farm work and settled at hisstudies.""We might form ourselves into a RandallProtective Agency, Limited," mused Miss Maxwell. "Iconfess I want Rebecca to have a career.""I don't," said Adam promptly.   "Of course you don't. Men have no interest inthe careers of women! But I know Rebecca betterthan you.""You understand her mind better, but notnecessarily her heart. You are considering her for themoment as prodigy; I am thinking of her more aspearl.""Well," sighed Miss Maxwell whimsically, "prodigyor pearl, the Randall Protective Agency maypull Rebecca in opposite directions, but neverthelessshe will follow her saint."That will content me," said Adam gravely.   "Particularly if the saint beckons your way."And Miss Maxwell looked up and smiled provokingly.   Rebecca did not see her aunt Miranda till shehad been at the brick house for several days.   Miranda steadily refused to have any one but Jane inthe room until her face had regained its naturallook, but her door was always ajar, and Jane fanciedshe liked to hear Rebecca's quick, light step. Hermind was perfectly clear now, and, save that shecould not move, she was most of the time quite freefrom pain, and alert in every nerve to all that wasgoing on within or without the house. "Were thewindfall apples being picked up for sauce; were thepotatoes thick in the hills; was the corn tosselin'   out; were they cuttin' the upper field; were theykeepin' fly-paper laid out everywheres; were thereany ants in the dairy; was the kindlin' wood holdin'   out; had the bank sent the cowpons?"Poor Miranda Sawyer! Hovering on the vergeof the great beyond,--her body "struck" and nolonger under control of her iron will,--no divinevisions floated across her tired brain; nothing butpetty cares and sordid anxieties. Not all at oncecan the soul talk with God, be He ever so near. Ifthe heavenly language never has been learned,quick as is the spiritual sense in seizing the facts itneeds, then the poor soul must use the words andphrases it has lived on and grown into day by day.   Poor Miss Miranda!--held fast within the prisonwalls of her own nature, blind in the presence ofrevelation because she had never used the spiritualeye, deaf to angelic voices because she had not usedthe spiritual ear.   There came a morning when she asked forRebecca. The door was opened into the dim sick-room, and Rebecca stood there with the sunlightbehind her, her hands full of sweet peas. Miranda'spale, sharp face, framed in its nightcap, lookedhaggard on the pillow, and her body was pitifully stillunder the counterpane.   "Come in," she said; "I ain't dead yet. Don'tmess up the bed with them flowers, will ye?""Oh, no! They're going in a glass pitcher," saidRebecca, turning to the washstand as she tried tocontrol her voice and stop the tears that sprangto her eyes.   "Let me look at ye; come closer. What dressare ye wearin'?" said the old aunt in her cracked,weak voice.   "My blue calico.""Is your cashmere holdin' its color?""Yes, aunt Miranda.""Do you keep it in a dark closet hung on thewrong side, as I told ye?""Always.""Has your mother made her jelly?""She hasn't said.""She always had the knack o' writin' letters withnothin' in 'em. What's Mark broke sence I've beensick?""Nothing at all, aunt Miranda.""Why, what's the matter with him? Gittin'   lazy, ain't he? How 's John turnin' out?""He's going to be the best of us all.""I hope you don't slight things in the kitchenbecause I ain't there. Do you scald the coffee-potand turn it upside down on the winder-sill?""Yes, aunt Miranda.""It's always `yes' with you, and `yes' withJane," groaned Miranda, trying to move her stiffenedbody; "but all the time I lay here knowin'   there's things done the way I don't like 'em."There was a long pause, during which Rebeccasat down by the bedside and timidly touched heraunt's hand, her heart swelling with tender pity atthe gaunt face and closed eyes.   "I was dreadful ashamed to have you graduatein cheesecloth, Rebecca, but I couldn't help it no-how. You'll hear the reason some time, and knowI tried to make it up to ye. I'm afraid you was alaughin'-stock!""No," Rebecca answered. "Ever so many peoplesaid our dresses were the very prettiest; they lookedlike soft lace. You're not to be anxious aboutanything. Here I am all grown up and graduated,--number three in a class of twenty-two, auntMiranda,--and good positions offered me already.   Look at me, big and strong and young, all ready togo into the world and show what you and auntJane have done for me. If you want me near, I'lltake the Edgewood school, so that I can be herenights and Sundays to help; and if you get better,then I'll go to Augusta,--for that's a hundreddollars more, with music lessons and other thingsbeside.""You listen to me," said Miranda quaveringly.   "Take the best place, regardless o' my sickness.   I'd like to live long enough to know you'd paid offthat mortgage, but I guess I shan't."Here she ceased abruptly, having talked morethan she had for weeks; and Rebecca stole out ofthe room, to cry by herself and wonder if old agemust be so grim, so hard, so unchastened andunsweetened, as it slipped into the valley of theshadow.   The days went on, and Miranda grew strongerand stronger; her will seemed unassailable, andbefore long she could be moved into a chair by thewindow, her dominant thought being to arrive atsuch a condition of improvement that the doctorneed not call more than once a week, instead ofdaily; thereby diminishing the bill, that was mount-ing to such a terrifying sum that it haunted herthoughts by day and dreams by night.   Little by little hope stole back into Rebecca'syoung heart. Aunt Jane began to "clear starch"her handkerchiefs and collars and purple muslindress, so that she might be ready to go to Brunswickat any moment when the doctor pronouncedMiranda well on the road to recovery. Everythingbeautiful was to happen in Brunswick if shecould be there by August,--everything that heartcould wish or imagination conceive, for she was tobe Miss Emily's very own visitor, and sit at tablewith college professors and other great men.   At length the day dawned when the few clean,simple dresses were packed in the hair trunk,together with her beloved coral necklace, her cheeseclothgraduating dress, her class pin, aunt Jane'slace cape, and the one new hat, which she tried onevery night before going to bed. It was of whitechip with a wreath of cheap white roses and greenleaves, and cost between two and three dollars, anunprecedented sum in Rebecca's experience. Theeffect of its glories when worn with her nightdresswas dazzling enough, but if ever it appeared inconjunction with the cheesecloth gown, Rebecca feltthat even reverend professors might regard it withrespect. It is probable indeed that any professorialgaze lucky enough to meet a pair of dark eyes shiningunder that white rose garland would never havestopped at respect!   Then, when all was ready and Abijah Flagg atthe door, came a telegram from Hannah: "Comeat once. Mother has had bad accident."In less than an hour Rebecca was started on herway to Sunnybrook, her heart palpitating with fearas to what might be awaiting her at her journey'send.   Death, at all events, was not there to meet her;but something that looked at first only too muchlike it. Her mother had been standing on thehaymow superintending some changes in the barn,had been seized with giddiness, they thought, andslipped. The right knee was fractured and the backstrained and hurt, but she was conscious and in noimmediate danger, so Rebecca wrote, when she hada moment to send aunt Jane the particulars.   "I don' know how 'tis," grumbled Miranda, whowas not able to sit up that day; "but from a childI could never lay abed without Aurelia's gettin' sicktoo. I don' know 's she could help fallin', thoughit ain't anyplace for a woman,--a haymow; butif it hadn't been that, 't would 'a' been somethin'   else. Aurelia was born unfortunate. Now she'llprobably be a cripple, and Rebecca'll have to nurseher instead of earning a good income somewhereselse.""Her first duty 's to her mother," said aunt Jane;"I hope she'll always remember that.""Nobody remembers anything they'd ought to,--at seventeen," responded Miranda. "Now thatI'm strong again, there's things I want to considerwith you, Jane, things that are on my mind nightand day. We've talked 'em over before; now we'llsettle 'em. When I'm laid away, do you want totake Aurelia and the children down here to the brickhouse? There's an awful passel of 'em,--Aurelia,Jenny, and Fanny; but I won't have Mark. Hannahcan take him; I won't have a great boy stompin'   out the carpets and ruinin' the furniture, thoughI know when I'm dead I can't hinder ye, if youmake up your mind to do anything.""I shouldn't like to go against your feelings,especially in laying out your money, Miranda," saidJane.   "Don't tell Rebecca I've willed her the brickhouse. She won't git it till I'm gone, and I want totake my time 'bout dyin' and not be hurried off bythem that's goin' to profit by it; nor I don't want tobe thanked, neither. I s'pose she'll use the frontstairs as common as the back and like as not havewater brought into the kitchen, but mebbe whenI've been dead a few years I shan't mind. She setssuch store by you, she'll want you to have your homehere as long's you live, but anyway I've wrote itdown that way; though Lawyer Burns's wills don'thold more'n half the time. He's cheaper, but Iguess it comes out jest the same in the end. Iwan't goin' to have the fust man Rebecca picks upfor a husband turnin' you ou'doors."There was a long pause, during which Jane knitsilently, wiping the tears from her eyes from timeto time, as she looked at the pitiful figure lyingweakly on the pillows. Suddenly Miranda said slowlyand feebly:--"I don' know after all but you might as welltake Mark; I s'pose there's tame boys as well aswild ones. There ain't a mite o' sense in havin'   so many children, but it's a turrible risk splittin' upfamilies and farmin' 'em out here 'n' there; they'dnever come to no good, an' everybody would keeprememberin' their mother was a Sawyer. Now ifyou'll draw down the curtin, I'll try to sleep." Chapter 29 Mother And Daughter Two months had gone by,--two months ofsteady, fagging work; of cooking, washing,ironing; of mending and caring forthe three children, although Jenny was fast becominga notable little housewife, quick, ready, andcapable. They were months in which there hadbeen many a weary night of watching by Aurelia'sbedside; of soothing and bandaging and rubbing;of reading and nursing, even of feeding and bathing.   The ceaseless care was growing less now, andthe family breathed more freely, for the mother'ssigh of pain no longer came from the stiflingbedroom, where, during a hot and humid August,Aurelia had lain, suffering with every breath shedrew. There would be no question of walking formany a month to come, but blessings seemed tomultiply when the blinds could be opened and thebed drawn near the window; when mother, withpillows behind her, could at least sit and watch thework going on, could smile at the past agony andforget the weary hours that had led to her presentcomparative ease and comfort.   No girl of seventeen can pass through such anordeal and come out unchanged; no girl of Re-becca's temperament could go through it withoutsome inward repining and rebellion. She was doingtasks in which she could not be fully happy,--heavyand trying tasks, which perhaps she could neverdo with complete success or satisfaction; and likepromise of nectar to thirsty lips was the vision ofjoys she had had to put aside for the performanceof dull daily duty. How brief, how fleeting,had been those splendid visions when the universeseemed open for her young strength to battleand triumph in! How soon they had faded intothe light of common day! At first, sympathy andgrief were so keen she thought of nothing buther mother's pain. No consciousness of self interposedbetween her and her filial service; then, asthe weeks passed, little blighted hopes began to stirand ache in her breast; defeated ambitions raisedtheir heads as if to sting her; unattainable delightsteased her by their very nearness; by the narrowline of separation that lay between her and theirrealization. It is easy, for the moment, to tread thenarrow way, looking neither to the right nor left,upborne by the sense of right doing; but that firstjoy of self-denial, the joy that is like fire in theblood, dies away; the path seems drearier and thefootsteps falter. Such a time came to Rebecca, andher bright spirit flagged when the letter wasreceived saying that her position in Augusta had beenfilled. There was a mutinous leap of the heart then,a beating of wings against the door of the cage, alonging for the freedom of the big world outside.   It was the stirring of the powers within her, thoughshe called it by no such grand name. She felt asif the wind of destiny were blowing her flamehither and thither, burning, consuming her, butkindling nothing. All this meant one stormy nightin her little room at Sunnybrook, but the cloudsblew over, the sun shone again, a rainbow stretchedacross the sky, while "hope clad in April green"smiled into her upturned face and beckoned her on,saying:--"Grow old along with me,The best is yet to be."Threads of joy ran in and out of the gray tangledweb of daily living. There was the attempt at oddmoments to make the bare little house less bare bybringing in out-of-doors, taking a leaf from Nature'sbook and noting how she conceals ugliness wherevershe finds it. Then there was the satisfaction of beingmistress of the poor domain; of planning, governing,deciding; of bringing order out of chaos; ofimplanting gayety in the place of inert resignation tothe inevitable. Another element of comfort was thechildren's love, for they turned to her as flowers tothe sun, drawing confidently on her fund of stories,serene in the conviction that there was no limit toRebecca's power of make-believe. In this, and inyet greater things, little as she realized it, the lawof compensation was working in her behalf, for inthose anxious days mother and daughter found andknew each other as never before. A new sense wasborn in Rebecca as she hung over her mother's bedof pain and unrest,--a sense that comes only ofministering, a sense that grows only when the strongbend toward the weak. As for Aurelia, words couldnever have expressed her dumb happiness when thereal revelation of motherhood was vouchsafed her.   In all the earlier years when her babies were young,carking cares and anxieties darkened the firesidewith their brooding wings. Then Rebecca had goneaway, and in the long months of absence her mindand soul had grown out of her mother's knowledge,so that now, when Aurelia had time and strengthto study her child, she was like some enchantingchangeling. Aurelia and Hannah had gone on inthe dull round and the common task, growing dullerand duller; but now, on a certain stage of life'sjourney, who should appear but this bewilderingbeing, who gave wings to thoughts that had onlycrept before; who brought color and grace andharmony into the dun brown texture of existence.   You might harness Rebecca to the heaviestplough, and while she had youth on her side, shewould always remember the green earth under herfeet and the blue sky over her head. Her physicaleye saw the cake she was stirring and the loaf shewas kneading; her physical ear heard the kitchenfire crackling and the teakettle singing, but everand anon her fancy mounted on pinions, resteditself, renewed its strength in the upper air. Thebare little farmhouse was a fixed fact, but she hadmany a palace into which she now and then withdrew;palaces peopled with stirring and gallant figuresbelonging to the world of romance; palacesnot without their heavenly apparitions too, breathingcelestial counsel. Every time she retired to hercitadel of dreams she came forth radiant andrefreshed, as one who has seen the evening star, orheard sweet music, or smelled the rose of joy.   Aurelia could have understood the feeling ofa narrow-minded and conventional hen who hasbrought a strange, intrepid duckling into the world;but her situation was still more wonderful, for shecould only compare her sensations to those of somequiet brown Dorking who has brooded an ordinaryegg and hatched a bird of paradise. Such an ideahad crossed her mind more than once during thepast fortnight, and it flashed to and fro this mellowOctober morning when Rebecca came into the roomwith her arms full of goldenrod and flaming autumnleaves.   "Just a hint of the fall styles, mother," she said,slipping the stem of a gorgeous red and yellowsapling between the mattress and the foot of the bed.   "This was leaning over the pool, and I was afraidit would be vain if I left it there too long lookingat its beautiful reflection, so I took it away fromdanger; isn't it wonderful? How I wish I couldcarry one to poor aunt Miranda to-day! There'snever a flower in the brick house when I'maway."It was a marvelous morning. The sun had climbedinto a world that held in remembrance only asuccession of golden days and starlit nights. The airwas fragrant with ripening fruit, and there was amad little bird on a tree outside the door nearlybursting his throat with joy of living. He hadforgotten that summer was over, that winter must evercome; and who could think of cold winds, bareboughs, or frozen streams on such a day? A paintedmoth came in at the open window and settled onthe tuft of brilliant leaves. Aurelia heard the birdand looked from the beauty of the glowing bush toher tall, splendid daughter, standing like youngSpring with golden Autumn in her arms.   Then suddenly she covered her eyes and cried,"I can't bear it! Here I lie chained to this bed,interfering with everything you want to do. It's allwasted! All my saving and doing without; all yourhard study; all Mirandy's outlay; everything thatwe thought was going to be the making of you!""Mother, mother, don't talk so, don't thinkso!" exclaimed Rebecca, sitting down impetuouslyon the floor by the bed and dropping the goldenrodby her side. "Why, mother, I'm only a little pastseventeen! This person in a purple calico apronwith flour on her nose is only the beginnings of me!   Do you remember the young tree that John transplanted?   We had a dry summer and a cold winterand it didn't grow a bit, nor show anything of allwe did for it; then there was a good year and itmade up for lost time. This is just my little`rooting season,' mother, but don't go and believe myday is over, because it hasn't begun! The oldmaple by the well that's in its hundredth year hadnew leaves this summer, so there must be hope forme at seventeen!""You can put a brave face on it," sobbedAurelia, "but you can't deceive me. You've lost yourplace; you'll never see your friends here, andyou're nothing but a drudge!""I look like a drudge," said Rebecca mysteriously,with laughing eyes, "but I really am a princess;you mustn't tell, but this is only a disguise;I wear it for reasons of state. The king and queenwho are at present occupying my throne are veryold and tottering, and are going to abdicate shortlyin my favor. It's rather a small kingdom, I suppose,as kingdoms go, so there isn't much strugglefor it in royal circles, and you mustn't expect tosee a golden throne set with jewels. It will probablybe only of ivory with a nice screen of peacockfeathers for a background; but you shall have acomfortable chair very near it, with quantities ofslaves to do what they call in novels your `lightestbidding.'"Aurelia smiled in spite of herself, and though notperhaps wholly deceived, she was comforted.   "I only hope you won't have to wait too long foryour thrones and your kingdoms, Rebecca," shesaid, "and that I shall have a sight of them beforeI die; but life looks very hard and rough to me,what with your aunt Miranda a cripple at the brickhouse, me another here at the farm, you tied handand foot, first with one and then with the other,to say nothing of Jenny and Fanny and Mark!   You've got something of your father's happydisposition, or it would weigh on you as it does onme.""Why, mother!" cried Rebecca, clasping herknees with her hands; "why, mother, it's enoughjoy just to be here in the world on a day like this;to have the chance of seeing, feeling, doing, becoming!   When you were seventeen, mother, wasn't itgood just to be alive? You haven't forgotten?""No," said Aurelia, "but I wasn't so much aliveas you are, never in the world.""I often think," Rebecca continued, walking tothe window and looking out at the trees,--"I oftenthink how dreadful it would be if I were not hereat all. If Hannah had come, and then, instead ofme, John; John and Jenny and Fanny and theothers, but no Rebecca; never any Rebecca! Tobe alive makes up for everything; there ought tobe fears in my heart, but there aren't; somethingstronger sweeps them out, something like a wind.   Oh, see! There is Will driving up the lane,mother, and he ought to have a letter from thebrick house." Chapter 30 "Good-by, Sunnybrook!" Will Melville drove up to the windowand, tossing a letter into Rebecca'slap, went off to the barn on an errand.   "Sister 's no worse, then," sighed Aureliagratefully, "or Jane would have telegraphed. See whatshe says."Rebecca opened the envelope and read in oneflash of an eye the whole brief page:--Your aunt Miranda passed away an hour ago.   Come at once, if your mother is out of danger. Ishall not have the funeral till you are here. Shedied very suddenly and without any pain. Oh,Rebecca! I long for you so!   Aunt Jane.   The force of habit was too strong, and evenin the hour of death Jane had remembered thata telegram was twenty-five cents, and that Aureliawould have to pay half a dollar for its delivery.   Rebecca burst into a passion of tears as shecried, "Poor, poor aunt Miranda! She is gonewithout taking a bit of comfort in life, and Icouldn't say good-by to her! Poor lonely auntJane! What can I do, mother? I feel torn in two,between you and the brick house.""You must go this very instant," said Aurelia;starting from her pillows. "If I was to die whileyou were away, I would say the very same thing.   Your aunts have done everything in the world foryou,--more than I've ever been able to do,--andit is your turn to pay back some o' their kindnessand show your gratitude. The doctor says I'veturned the corner and I feel I have. Jenny canmake out somehow, if Hannah'll come over oncea day.""But, mother, I CAN'T go! Who'll turn you inbed?" exclaimed Rebecca, walking the floor andwringing her hands distractedly.   "It don't make any difference if I don't getturned," replied Aurelia stoically. "If a womanof my age and the mother of a family hasn't gotsense enough not to slip off haymows, she'd oughtto suffer. Go put on your black dress and pack yourbag. I'd give a good deal if I was able to go tomy sister's funeral and prove that I've forgottenand forgiven all she said when I was married. Heracts were softer 'n her words, Mirandy's were, andshe's made up to you for all she ever sinnedagainst me 'n' your father! And oh, Rebecca," shecontinued with quivering voice, "I remember sowell when we were little girls together and she tooksuch pride in curling my hair; and another time,when we were grown up, she lent me her best bluemuslin: it was when your father had asked me tolead the grand march with him at the Christmasdance, and I found out afterwards she thought he'dintended to ask her!"Here Aurelia broke down and wept bitterly; forthe recollection of the past had softened her heartand brought the comforting tears even more effectuallythan the news of her sister's death.   There was only an hour for preparation. Willwould drive Rebecca to Temperance and sendJenny back from school. He volunteered also toengage a woman to sleep at the farm in case Mrs.   Randall should be worse at any time in the night.   Rebecca flew down over the hill to get a last pailof spring water, and as she lifted the bucket fromthe crystal depths and looked out over the glowingbeauty of the autumn landscape, she saw a companyof surveyors with their instruments makingcalculations and laying lines that apparently crossedSunnybrook at the favorite spot where Mirror Poollay clear and placid, the yellow leaves on its surfaceno yellower than its sparkling sands.   She caught her breath. "The time has come!"she thought. "I am saying good-by to Sunnybrook,and the golden gates that almost swung togetherthat last day in Wareham will close forevernow. Good-by, dear brook and hills and meadows;you are going to see life too, so we must be hopefuland say to one another:--"`Grow old along with me,The best is yet to be.'"Will Melville had seen the surveyors too, andhad heard in the Temperance post-office that morningthe probable sum that Mrs. Randall would receivefrom the railway company. He was in goodspirits at his own improved prospects, for his farmwas so placed that its value could be only increasedby the new road; he was also relieved in mindthat his wife's family would no longer be in direpoverty directly at his doorstep, so to speak. Johncould now be hurried forward and forced into theposition of head of the family several years soonerthan had been anticipated, so Hannah's husbandwas obliged to exercise great self-control or hewould have whistled while he was driving Rebeccato the Temperance station. He could not understandher sad face or the tears that rolled silentlydown her cheeks from time to time; for Hannahhad always represented her aunt Miranda as anirascible, parsimonious old woman, who would beno loss to the world whenever she should elect todisappear from it.   "Cheer up, Becky!" he said, as he left her at thedepot. "You'll find your mother sitting up whenyou come back, and the next thing you know thewhole family'll be moving to some nice little housewherever your work is. Things will never be sobad again as they have been this last year; that'swhat Hannah and I think;" and he drove away totell his wife the news.   Adam Ladd was in the station and came up toRebecca instantly, as she entered the door lookingvery unlike her bright self.   "The Princess is sad this morning," he said,taking her hand. "Aladdin must rub the magiclamp; then the slave will appear, and these tearsbe dried in a trice."He spoke lightly, for he thought her troublewas something connected with affairs at Sunnybrook,and that he could soon bring the smiles bytelling her that the farm was sold and that hermother was to receive a handsome price in return.   He meant to remind her, too, that though she mustleave the home of her youth, it was too remote aplace to be a proper dwelling either for herself orfor her lonely mother and the three youngerchildren. He could hear her say as plainly as if it wereyesterday, "I don't think one ever forgets the spotwhere one lived as a child." He could see the quaintlittle figure sitting on the piazza at North Riverboroand watch it disappear in the lilac bushes when hegave the memorable order for three hundred cakesof Rose-Red and Snow-White soap.   A word or two soon told him that her grief wasof another sort, and her mood was so absent, sosensitive and tearful, that he could only assure herof his sympathy and beg that he might come soonto the brick house to see with his own eyes howshe was faring.   Adam thought, when he had put her on the trainand taken his leave, that Rebecca was, in her saddignity and gravity, more beautiful than he had everseen her,--all-beautiful and all-womanly. But in thatmoment's speech with her he had looked into hereyes and they were still those of a child; there wasno knowledge of the world in their shining depths,no experience of men or women, no passion, norcomprehension of it. He turned from the little countrystation to walk in the woods by the wayside untilhis own train should be leaving, and from time totime he threw himself under a tree to think anddream and look at the glory of the foliage. Hehad brought a new copy of The Arabian Nights forRebecca, wishing to replace the well-worn old onethat had been the delight of her girlhood; butmeeting her at such an inauspicious time, he hadabsently carried it away with him. He turned thepages idly until he came to the story of Aladdinand the Wonderful Lamp, and presently, in spiteof his thirty-four years, the old tale held himspellbound as it did in the days when he first read it asa boy. But there were certain paragraphs thatespecially caught his eye and arrested his attention,--paragraphs that he read and reread, finding in themhe knew not what secret delight and significance.   These were the quaintly turned phrases describingthe effect on the once poor Aladdin of hiswonderful riches, and those descanting upon the beautyand charm of the Sultan's daughter, the PrincessBadroulboudour:--_Not only those who knew Aladdin when heplayed in the streets like a vagabond did not knowhim again; those who had seen him but a littlewhile before hardly knew him, so much were hisfeatures altered; such were the effects of the lamp,as to procure by degrees to those who possessed it,perfections agreeable to the rank the right use of itadvanced them to.__The Princess was the most beautiful brunette inthe world; her eyes were large, lively, and sparkling;her looks sweet and modest; her nose was ofa just proportion and without a fault; her mouthsmall, her lips of a vermilion red, and charminglyagreeable symmetry; in a word, all the features ofher face were perfectly regular. It is not thereforesurprising that Aladdin, who had never seen, andwas a stranger to, so many charms, was dazzled.   With all these perfections the Princess had so delicatea shape, so majestic an air, that the sight of herwas sufficient to inspire respect.__"Adorable Princess," said Aladdin to her, accostingher, and saluting her respectfully, "if I have themisfortune to have displeased you by my boldness inaspiring to the possession of so lovely a creature, Imust tell you that you ought to blame your brighteyes and charms, not me.""Prince," answered the Princess, "it is enoughfor me to have seen you, to tell you that I obey withoutreluctance." Chapter 31 Aunt Miranda's Apology When Rebecca alighted from the trainat Maplewood and hurried to the post-office where the stage was standing,what was her joy to see uncle Jerry Cobb holdingthe horses' heads.   "The reg'lar driver 's sick," he explained, "andwhen they sent for me, thinks I to myself, mydrivin' days is over, but Rebecky won't let the grassgrow under her feet when she gits her aunt Jane'sletter, and like as not I'll ketch her to-day; or, ifshe gits delayed, to-morrow for certain. So here Ibe jest as I was more 'n six year ago. Will you bea real lady passenger, or will ye sit up in frontwith me?"Emotions of various sorts were all strugglingtogether in the old man's face, and the two orthree bystanders were astounded when they sawthe handsome, stately girl fling herself on Mr.   Cobb's dusty shoulder crying like a child. "Oh,uncle Jerry!" she sobbed; "dear uncle Jerry! It'sall so long ago, and so much has happened, andwe've grown so old, and so much is going to happenthat I'm fairly frightened.""There, there, lovey," the old man whisperedcomfortingly, "we'll be all alone on the stage, andwe'll talk things over 's we go along the road an'   mebbe they won't look so bad."Every mile of the way was as familiar to Rebeccaas to uncle Jerry; every watering-trough, grindstone,red barn, weather-vane, duck-pond, and sandybrook. And all the time she was looking backwardto the day, seemingly so long ago, when she sat onthe box seat for the first time, her legs dangling inthe air, too short to reach the footboard. She couldsmell the big bouquet of lilacs, see the pink-flouncedparasol, feel the stiffness of the starched buff calicoand the hated prick of the black and yellow porcupinequills. The drive was taken almost in silence,but it was a sweet, comforting silence both touncle Jerry and the girl.   Then came the sight of Abijah Flagg shellingbeans in the barn, and then the Perkins attic windowswith a white cloth fluttering from them. Shecould spell Emma Jane's loving thought and welcomein that little waving flag; a word and a messagesent to her just at the first moment whenRiverboro chimneys rose into view; something towarm her heart till they could meet.   The brick house came next, looking just as ofyore; though it seemed to Rebecca as if deathshould have cast some mysterious spell over it.   There were the rolling meadows, the stately elms,all yellow and brown now; the glowing maples,the garden-beds bright with asters, and the hollyhocks,rising tall against the parlor windows; onlyin place of the cheerful pinks and reds of thenodding stalks, with their gay rosettes of bloom,was a crape scarf holding the blinds together, andanother on the sitting-room side, and another onthe brass knocker of the brown-painted door.   "Stop, uncle Jerry! Don't turn in at the side;hand me my satchel, please; drop me in the roadand let me run up the path by myself. Then driveaway quickly."At the noise and rumble of the approachingstage the house door opened from within, just asRebecca closed the gate behind her. Aunt Janecame down the stone steps, a changed woman,frail and broken and white. Rebecca held out herarms and the old aunt crept into them feebly, asshe did on that day when she opened the grave ofher buried love and showed the dead face, just foran instant, to a child. Warmth and strength andlife flowed into the aged frame from the young one.   "Rebecca," she said, raising her head, "beforeyou go in to look at her, do you feel any bitternessover anything she ever said to you?"Rebecca's eyes blazed reproach, almost anger, asshe said chokingly: "Oh, aunt Jane! Could youbelieve it of me? I am going in with a heart brimfulof gratitude!""She was a good woman, Rebecca; she had aquick temper and a sharp tongue, but she wantedto do right, and she did it as near as she could.   She never said so, but I'm sure she was sorry forevery hard word she spoke to you; she didn't take'em back in life, but she acted so 't you'd know herfeeling when she was gone.""I told her before I left that she'd been the makingof me, just as mother says," sobbed Rebecca"She wasn't that," said Jane. "God made youin the first place, and you've done considerable yourselfto help Him along; but she gave you the wherewithalto work with, and that ain't to be despised;specially when anybody gives up her own luxuriesand pleasures to do it. Now let me tell you something,Rebecca. Your aunt Mirandy 's willed all thisto you,--the brick house and buildings and furniture,and the land all round the house, as far 's youcan see."Rebecca threw off her hat and put her hand toher heart, as she always did in moments of intenseexcitement. After a moment's silence she said:   "Let me go in alone; I want to talk to her; I wantto thank her; I feel as if I could make her hear andfeel and understand!"Jane went back into the kitchen to the inexorabletasks that death has no power, even for a day, toblot from existence. He can stalk through dwellingafter dwelling, leaving despair and desolation behindhim, but the table must be laid, the dishes washed,the beds made, by somebody.   Ten minutes later Rebecca came out from theGreat Presence looking white and spent, but chastenedand glorified. She sat in the quiet doorway,shaded from the little Riverboro world by theoverhanging elms. A wide sense of thankfulness andpeace possessed her, as she looked at the autumnlandscape, listened to the rumble of a wagon on thebridge, and heard the call of the river as it dashedto the sea. She put up her hand softly and touchedfirst the shining brass knocker and then the redbricks, glowing in the October sun.   It was home; her roof, her garden, her greenacres, her dear trees; it was shelter for the littlefamily at Sunnybrook; her mother would have oncemore the companionship of her sister and the friendsof her girlhood; the children would have teachersand playmates.   And she? Her own future was close-folded still;folded and hidden in beautiful mists; but she leanedher head against the sun-warmed door, and closingher eyes, whispered, just as if she had been achild saying her prayers: "God bless aunt Miranda;God bless the brick house that was; God bless thebrick house that is to be!" The End